


a different path

by ayuminb



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (but i guess it always depends on the perspective), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baby!Jon Snow, Baby!Robb Stark, Brief Mentions of Rhaegar/Lyanna, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Knights Being Not So Knightly, Lyanna Marries Robert AU, Lyanna Stark Lives, Mother-Son Relationship, Ned/Cat are Shy Newlyweds - Hot AF for each other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Possessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Queen Lyanna Stark, R plus L equals J, Some Politics Happen, Unwanted Kingship/Queenship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-02-11 06:05:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12929106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: [in which Robert and Lyanna try to make the best of their situation and fail; except when they don't.]v. Lyanna slams into him much as she used to do when they were children, when he returned to Winterfell for a time. Arms around his waist and squeezing him tight, only now her head reached just below his shoulders as opposed to below his chest.





	1. a change

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bythunder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bythunder/gifts).



 

_It starts with a grin._

 

*****

 

Lyanna paces her bedchamber, rocking her baby boy gently; Jon yawns, rubs his chubby cheek against her shoulder and relaxes completely. One of his little hands fists over the collar of her gown, the other curls close to his face – he’s at the verge of falling asleep, but stubbornly holds onto the last remains of his consciousness.

 

A part of her wants to blame Robert, lounging on her bed, eyes tracking her movements, but she knows that to be unfair. Jon’s not bothered by him, has _never_ been; it’s her the one who finds his presence unnerving – he usually waits for her to send a note, after she’s put her baby to sleep, to come into her bedchambers.

 

She hadn’t been thinking about calling on him tonight – she usually does on the days she’s most likely to conceive, according to Maester Pycelle. The pressure of giving the realm a trueborn Heir takes its toll on her; it’s only been a few months since the wedding, but considering Robert’s reputation, everyone had expected her to be with child _already_. Now it’s not one of those days, not the best time to get with child, but she won’t deny him either.

 

_(And, oh, but Lyanna could laugh at the irony—that the one place where she and Robert understand each other perfectly would be their marriage bed.)_

 

A happy gurgle snaps her out of her conflicting thoughts; Lyanna turns her head to look at Jon, finds him grinning widely and happily – it takes her a moment to realize at _whom_ , but by the time she turns, Robert has lowered his head and focuses on the carpeted floor.

 

It’s only when she goes back to lulling her boy to sleep that her husband breaks the silence.

 

“Are the bedchambers to your liking?” There’s a pause, the rustling of bed covers. “I never thought to ask before.”

 

“Yes,” she says, and _means_ it; she’d not expected it, after deciding to honor the betrothal with Robert despite _everything_ , and it had been a nice surprise, heartwarming—to see the Queen’s chambers, her chambers, draped with Stark colors, curtains and bedspreads embroidered with snarling direwolves.

 

Once, she’d thought Robert wanted to make her a proper Southron Lady, a Baratheon in more than just name, dress her in silks of vibrant colors and extravagant jewelry – to be a pretty face that will bear him sons, meek and silent. _That was unfair of me_ , she thinks of Catelyn, her dear brother’s wife, _she’s Lady Stark now_ , of the strength Lyanna saw in her when they finally met months ago, the day she wedded Robert. She’d realized, _perhaps_ , she had been as closed-minded about Southrons as they were about Northeners. _Perhaps_ , she’d been harsher still when it came to Robert.

 

Truly, the irony is not lost on her.

 

“I love them,” she says, looking over her shoulder straight at him, and waits for him to meet her eyes before giving him a smile. “I never got the chance to thank you, so—”

 

“It was Ned.”

 

Oh, but it _wasn’t_. She knows, her dear brother had helped, of course—Ned had admitted that much to her—but the idea, the thought behind the whole thing, had been Robert’s _alone_.

 

“Nevertheless – thank you, Robert.”

 

A soft snore, more a sigh really, from her shoulder diverts her attention once more. Lyanna smiles gently, makes sure her baby boy is truly asleep, before laying him down on his crib – another one of Robert’s presents, though another he insists was Ned’s idea. She bends to place a kiss to his little forehead and then, with a deep sigh, takes a step back.

 

Robert is there, _suddenly_ , running the back of his fingers down the exposed skin of her neck; she can’t _help_ _it_ , the shiver that runs down her spine, the fluttering of her eyes and the catching of her breath—the dampness of her sex. He drops a kiss to the top of her head, turns her around; his hands encompass the whole of her waist, and he lifts her up so effortlessly to carry her towards the bed.

 

“You can’t rip this gown,” she says, softly, so only he listens, “Catelyn made it for me. A late wedding present.”

 

He bends down to place a kiss on her neck, trails his lips up to her jaw, and hums. “That’s alright… I wanted to do it nice and slow, anyway.”

 

Later, as they lay panting and sweating, _entwined_ , as Robert lingers in the cradle of her thighs and braces his weight on his elbows, as his beard tickles a path under her jaw while he nuzzles her neck, and she trails her fingers over the muscles of his back; _later_ – Lyanna doesn’t ask if he wishes to stay, he doesn’t ask if she _wants_ him to stay, they keep their silence and let the sleep take them away.

 

*****

 

_It follows with a laugh._

 

*****

 

Three months after that one incident with Jon and Robert, Lyanna decides to stop avoiding the unavoidable and visit the Grand Maester, however much she loathed the old man. Only because she’s no other way to be certain of her suspicions – _it’s the second time I’ve missed my moonblood_ , she thinks, _what else could it be?_ She’s begun to tire more easily—her duties as Queen ever demanding, especially with a babe in her arms, and now more so—to crave food she usually can’t stand, not to mention the bouts of sickness that threaten to overcome her during the day; the last time this _happened_ —she looks at Jon.

 

Her son plays with his wooden toys; bigger now, he’s past his first year of age, crawling everywhere, _walking_ everywhere. He’s a little bundle of never-ending energy, and Lyanna is barely keeping up. Her handmaids try to help, but her paranoia that someone might _hurt_ him prevents her to trust anyone enough to properly rest.

 

Anyone but her brothers, Mother, and Catelyn; of the four, only Benjen is here in King’s Landing. Though currently training with Ser Barristan, as he usually does in the late afternoon.

 

 _I can’t interrupt his training_ , she thinks, casting a quick glance at one of the nursemaids Robert had ordered be brought to the Red Keep for her. For _Jon_. Her little boy, who grins every time he catches sight of her now; she grins back, but can’t quite stop her yawn.

 

“Your Grace? Would you… like me to watch over your son? So you may rest?”

 

Lyanna blinks, feels a wave of exhaustion hit her, shakes her head no. She has no _reason_ to mistrust this woman, or any other that surround her during the day, not _really_. Your son; they don’t call him _anything_ but that, and truly, she understands _why_. Yet she remembers the look on Tywin Lannister’s face, when she’d rode into King’s Landing with Robert, Ned following close behind. Remembers Robert ignoring Jon Arryn’s advice to keep the Lannisters close by wedding _the Lannister girl, Robert, their influence is vast_ —in lieu of wedding her.

 

She remembers all that, and simply can’t find it in herself to trust.

 

She knows half of the realm had not been happy with this union, _is not happy_ – but Robert is a force to be reckoned with, and _this_ his one and only selfish act as a King. Their saving grace, because after, Robert began heeding his Hand’s advice – Jon Arryn says it’s because of her. Though she can’t see how that is true, she’d barely been able to do her duty as Queen, a role similar to the one she would’ve had as Lady of Storm’s End, if at a much, _much_ bigger scale—but Lord Arryn had been insistent on his words.

 

Robert talks to her, _true_ , asks for her opinion, but that does not mean he follows what advice she can offer him. _It’s not like I know what it means to be Queen_ , she thinks. Even Robert is ill prepared for his new role; they were _not_ expecting this growing up, not when their betrothal was announced, and even after coming back from Dorne. They’d both fully expected to be in Storm’s End within the month.

 

“Your Grace?”

 

“No, thank you,” she says at length, shaking off her thoughts, “I was thinking of putting him down for a nap.”

 

The girl nods, hesitates only a moment before asking for permission to leave, which she grants. And once the doors close, Lyanna lets the tension leaves her in a rush, though it take with it all her remaining energy. Jon sits a few steps away from her, on the carpeted floor, and babbles at himself. He’s not tired, otherwise he would’ve crawled into her lap by now; but she can’t exactly go to sleep and leave him unattended.

 

“Jon,” the little one looks up, flashing her a grin that has her heart melting; Lyanna slides down onto the floor, reaches out. “Come here, my little wolf.”

 

Jon giggles and begins to crawl towards her, stopping midway to push himself onto his feet and walk the rest of the way on unsteady legs. One step at a time, until he falls forward with an excited squeal into her awaiting arms.

 

“Mama!”

 

Her chest constrict painfully and she can’t really help but gather his into her arms, squeezing tight, much to Jon’s delight. “My beautiful boy,” she kisses his head before pulling away and letting him settle on her lap. “Will you be good for me, Jon? Mama needs to rest a little bit.”

 

A happy babble is her answer, as Jon resumes his game; Lyanna takes a deep breath and leans back on the settee. _It’s only for a few minutes_ , she thinks, closing her eyes, _just a few minutes._

 

Only it’s more, _much more_ , she soon finds out; her eyes open to see her bedchamber bathed in oranges and reds from the setting sun, and it takes her a full minute to realize she’s laying down on her bed, not sitting on the floor in her solar.

 

 _How did I get here_ , and then comes a flash of panic, she sits up in the bed, _where’s Jon?_

 

Luckily, it doesn’t last. The doors to her solar are not fully closed, and through the crack she can hear her son’s joyful laughter. As relief sweeps over her, she falls back onto the pillows; _Benjen_ , she decides, her brother must’ve found her sleeping on the floor when he came back from his training, must’ve carried her to her bed before taking it upon himself to watch over Jon.

 

Lyanna takes her time to enjoy this moment of complete relaxation, smiles as she listens to Jon’s delight – whatever it is Benjen does, she’ll make sure to make it up to her little brother. _Perhaps a new sword_ , she thinks, _I could commission one for him_. She doesn’t think Robert would mind. Her peace is somewhat ruined by a knocking on her solar’s doors; with a last sigh of content she gets out of bed, intent on being the one to answer the call.

 

Let Jon and Benjen bond—

 

_“Enter!”_

 

—oh.

 

_“The food you requested, Your Grace.”_

 

_“Leave it on the table.”_

 

 _That’s not Benjen_. A stupid thought, but her shock doesn’t allow her to elaborate on more, doesn’t let her move at all. Jon keeps making happy noises, her body is once more full of tension as she grips the doornob, and all she can think of is _that’s not Benjen_.

 

_“Would you like me to take him—?”_

 

_“No, you may leave.”_

 

A blessing, it is, that the doors of the Red Keep open and close with nary a sound if one’s careful. _Truly_ , for when Lyanna pushes the doors to her bedchambers open, she’s able to do so silently. She’s able to stand there, unnoticed, and be witness to something she’d thought would never happen.

 

_Oh._

 

“Now, don’t laugh too loudly, your Mama needs to rest.”

 

Jon grins, pats Robert’s face, and babbles happily at him. He looks _so_ _tiny_ in Robert’s arms, a part of her wants to yell to be careful, but her baby boy is _happy_ , right there, giggling and babbling and laughing out loud – and _Robert_ , blowing raspberries to Jon’s little tummy and chuckling back at her son, sitting on the floor with the wooden toys scattered about. It’s a sight—heartwarming and heartbreaking—a sight she’d _never_. It makes her wonder.

 

_I can’t—_

 

Just as silently, she nears the pair, her husband and her son. Jon sees her first, obviously, as he’s been facing the doorway to her bedchamber; he calls happily for her, reaching out with a little hand while the other holds onto the man holding him in his arms. Robert freezes for a moment, and she’s quick to stop him from standing up, as is probably his intention, by coming up behind him and placing both hands on his shoulders. Lyanna bends over his broad shoulders to place a kiss to Jon’s forehead, and then, slowly, kneels behind her husband.

 

“Did we wake you?”

 

His question is barely above a whisper; the look he sends over his shoulder is one of apprehension and concern, but genuine all the same.

 

So she shakes her head, sits back on her heels and looks at him. Into his eyes and tries to understand where this urge to wrap her arms around him is coming from. A consequence of what she’d witnessed? Is it something else? He holds Jon so very carefully, not seeming to have difficulty when her baby boy starts squirming, as she’s wont to have, or Benjen. Maybe it is this – this sight he presents what has her feelings running away from her, all over the place. But Lyanna still manages to reign in her impulse, and settles for grabbing fists of his tunic at each side of his waist.

 

And leans forward, pressing her forehead to his back. “Robert.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

A deep breath, then she lets go. “I’m with child.”

 

His answering grin is as blindingly bright as the ones Jon is wont to flash at her, as the one her boy gifts her with _now_ – perhaps sensing the merriment, _perhaps_ simple imitation. It matters not. Robert shifts a giggling Jon onto his left arm and twists over enough to wrap his right arm around her waist, and pull her into his lap.

 

Her heart trips over a few beats, picks up its pace—and she keeps _wondering_ , right there cradled in Robert’s lap and with her son crawling into her arms. She wonders _still_ as her husband peppers her face with sloppy kisses, and Jon proceeds to do the same. And doesn’t stop even as her own lips start twitching with an answering smile.

 

By the time their lips meet, in a surprisingly tender caress, Lyanna is almost convinced this is all because circumstances. She can almost believe she reacts to his attentions because she’s caught him being _good_ to her son, because she carries his child, and not due to anything else.

 

Almost.

 

*****

 

_And a string of bittersweet, never-ending moments._


	2. louder than words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then, the first time around she’d been locked up in a tower as soon as she was with child, stressed and grieving, terrified for the lives of the brothers that remained to her and worried for the mother she’d stupidly left without a word. _I was a stupid little girl then._

The one thing she never thought to anticipate – _this_.

 

Lyanna huffs and tries to focus on the endless list of documents that need her approval. Endless requests to oversee everything that must be done in preparation of the Ball she’s been planning to celebrate Robert’s first year of reign.

 

 _And the first year of our marriage,_ she thinks as she looks across her solar, at her little brother and her son, playing enthusiastically by the windows with bright smiles on their faces.

 

Their happiness, it is a contagious thing – well, _Jon’s_ happiness, the peals of laughter that fall from his mouth capable of brightening even the most sour of men. _Jon Arryn_ , for one, such a serious man and one of the many who were against Robert honoring their betrothal at first; he can’t stop himself from chuckling when baby Jon starts laughing. And Jaime Lannister, the one member of the Aerys’ Kingsguard that remained, that chose to be the Queen’s Sworn Shield, to protect her; he is another who cannot resist her son’s merriment.

 

Although he tries, as he does now, jaw clenched shut to avoid smiling as he stands next to her, ever dutiful.

 

“It’s alright to smile once in a while, Ser Jaime,” she says, smiles when he startles and turns to give her a look that’s almost sheepish. “I promise to keep the secret.”

 

He clears his throat but doesn’t deny it. “Thank you, Your Grace. I’ll keep it in mind.”

 

Lyanna smiles, turns back around, and tries to focus on the documents before her once more with as much success as before. She just _cannot_ today, feeling restless and… Gods. The heat blooms, climbing up her neck until she’s certain her cheeks are a bright red – truly, this is all so new to her. Exchanging letters with her mother and Catelyn, both assure her it is a normal part of pregnancies, her mother more so, though she can’t recall feeling like this the first time around.

 

 _Then_ , the first time around she’d been locked up in a tower as soon as she was with child, stressed and grieving, terrified for the lives of the brothers that remained to her and worried for the mother she’d stupidly left without a word. _I was a stupid little girl then,_ the bitterness of that thought, of those memories, never seems to leave her. A stupid little girl who’d trusted the promises of help from the gallant Prince and had had all her expectations crushed. Naive and eager to escape a marriage with a stranger who would dishonor her only to have another stranger take away her freedom, _dishonor his own wife_ , and sire a bastard on her.

 

 _Don’t think about that,_ she shakes her head firmly, once, and grips her quill in determination. Jon’s laugher alleviates her somber mood, now, reminding her something _good_ still managed to come out of that disaster. Though it’s the shiny silver brooch pinned to his shirt what manages to push all thoughts of the past out of her mind.

 

Another present from Robert: a silver brooch in the shape of a direwolf, handed to her along with the documents that legitimized Jon.

 

She’d not read the documents at first, had heard Robert say quietly how he’d made all the necessary arrangements – he’d looked too solemn, such at odds with the usual expression she’d grown used to see on his face whenever it was just the three of them. Lyanna remembers feeling as if an icy fist had grabbed hold of her heart; she had been so _scared_ —Jon Baratheon, Jon Baratheon, _Jon Baratheon_ , circling her head like a dreaded mantra.

 

But it’s _Jon Stark_ ; Robert had made her little boy a Stark.

 

For his first nameday; that has to be the first time she’s ever initiated a kiss with her husband. More than a kiss, in fact, but she’d been so _happy_. It had given Jon a measure of protection he’d lacked before, as Rhaegar’s son; by taking him out of the line of succession this way. It had been the right thing to do. Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime had frowned, disapproved quietly, as well as some of the Lords in court – but Lyanna had breathed easier after that.

 

Only a month had passed since then, but things already proved to be less tense overall. Jon Arryn looks less inclined to harass Robert for one thing or another, she feels less pressure about her pregnancy, less piercing eyes on her and her son. Yes, she definitely rests easier after this.

 

She had wondered, though, whose idea it was; the answer left her as shocked as anything Robert had done for her, to date.

 

 _“I wanted to make him a Baratheon,”_ Robert had said, low into her barely rounded belly once she’d gathered the courage to question him. And she knows, he’d said it due to more than just fondness for Jon; his need to claim anything that he perceives as Rhaegar’s, to eradicate any and all memories of the Dragon Prince, too great. _“I still want to, but…”_

 

 _But that would put a bigger target on his little back._ For all Lyanna sometimes wonders at that, the what if of Jon being a true Baratheon, how she might want it in the deepest recesses off her mind, now—it is better this way. _Let my boy be a Stark, a true Stark._ Queenship does have its perks, in some cases; being able to keep her name is one, the thing she’d dreaded the most when her betrothal to Robert had been announced – lose her name.

 

 _Now I get to keep it,_ her quill taps an uneven rhythm to the table, leaving drops of black ink in the otherwise pristine sheets of parchment. _I get to keep my son. I’ve gained a crown and the burden of Seven Kingdoms on my shoulders._ And the ever-present knowledge of the thousands of lives lost in the process – including those of her beloved father and brother.

 

Lyanna shakes her head fiercely, earns a raised brow from Ser Jaime, which she ignores. Finally, she feels focused enough to work.

 

*****

 

For the most part, these urges are easier to control if not ignore.

 

She can manage when she’s alone, when Jon is with his nursemaid and Benjen. They don’t come often and when they _do_ , she spares a few minutes to relieve herself. And if she’s left slightly out of breath and yearning for a rougher touch, a bigger hand – _Robert’s_ hand as it slides between her legs over or under her smallclothes, it matters little, he always manages to leave her a quivering mess in his arms. Often times, they go right to fucking; _sometimes_ , he’d keep up this sweet torture until she’s begging him to take her. Few times, the tables turn and she’s the one making _him_ beg.

 

When had been the last time her husband touched her, though? Since the night she’d given him the news of her pregnancy, some two months ago. It rankles that he won’t touch her on the Grand Maester’s orders; it rankles _more_ , knowing he’s been spending some of his nights frequenting the city’s brothels.

 

Even if she’d told him he _could_ , back when they’d just been wed, thinking it was the least she could do, considering. She’d run away with the then Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms; had born him a son, had brought shame to her noble house and humiliation to that of her betrothed. Yet Robert Baratheon had fought a war to get her back, for her and her family; had wedded her as it had been arranged and had taken her son in with little complaint from his part. He is wonderful with Jon, now, laughs and plays and Gods even falls asleep with him; a _lesser_ man, any other man really, would’ve had her boy killed.

 

All she’d asked in return was discretion. And Robert had given it; _truly_ , were it not for Ser Barristan’s muted anger and Ser Jaime’s tense shoulders, Lyanna would’ve been none the wiser. At first she hadn’t even been aware of it; it had been a slip on Ser Barristan’s part, hearing him complain about Robert’s whereabouts. Now she knows, now she’s aware, and every day it happens – every day, it _hurts_ a little more.

 

Lyanna always thought, if she were to marry him, she would resent Robert for his philandering, perhaps even grow to hate him. She’d never expected to come to a point where she would grow _fond_ of him, where she’d leave herself open for such kind of pain. But it is impossible not to be affected by his charms, and by the Gods, but those were _many_ ; impossible not to feel her chest grow warm when she catches him being so very good with her boy.

 

When he makes her feel so very good in their marriage bed.

 

It occurs to her – she misses that, the intimacy and understanding they’d found between these silken sheets. Wants it, nay, _craves_ it with a burning passion. It occurs to Lyanna, then, that this might be more than just common urges due to her pregnancy.

 

She shakes her head furiously.

 

With a sigh, she gets out of bed; only a few minutes, it’s all it usually takes to find release, but lately Lyanna ends up more frustrated— _and hurt_ —than relieved. _I think I’ll find my husband._ She fixes her gown, a pretty thing made of silk, white and grey in color, fixes her hair and then steps out of her bedchambers.

 

Ser Jaime is nearby, and she has to suppress the wince that threatens to mar her face. She forgets he’s always near, fails to consider how much he knows of what happens when she retires for a few minutes to her bedchambers. Gods, has he heard? How much has he heard?

 

“Ser Jaime,” she says, tries not to think about unanswered questions.

 

He straightens up, has always stood taller than her, though not like Robert does. “My Queen?”

 

The way he calls her, it never ceases to make her blush; there’s an underlying feeling to his words she cannot quite place. “I need you to find Benjen and tell him to stay with Jon and his nursemaid for a while longer.”

 

Ser Jaime tilts his head, a placid smile on his face. “And leave you alone? The King won’t like that.”

 

Lyanna tilts her head much like him, giving an innocent smile. “As I fully intend to go to him, the King cannot complain.”

 

“Allow me to escort you, then.”

 

Thinks of declining, but she grabs the offered arm in the end, takes in the dashing smile, the green eyes and the golden hair. Lyanna can’t exactly begrudge his devotion, his dedication – these new vows of his, having been made to her. Her own Sworn Shield, an added protection; Benjen hadn’t been thrilled, said he’s more than enough to protect her, but she’d managed to placate him.

 

 _“You can’t protect me and Jon both, Ben,”_ she’d said, _“I won’t be able to keep my son at my side all the time, not for much longer.”_

 

They step out of her solar and walk down the hallway, then round a corner and come across a group of young ladies, daughters of visiting Lords from… The Reach, is it? Gods, Lyanna can’t remember; knows some minor houses have begun arriving for the upcoming Ball. She could try to guess, by the way they dress, but that’s really not her forte.

 

 _I wish Catelyn were here._ Her good-sister would certainly know.

 

The women curtsy upon seeing her, with all the deference due to their status. She nods in acknowledgement, smiles when their eyes meet, but says nothing. Not that it matter, the girls are quick to cast appreciative glances at Ser Jaime, who responds with gallant smile and a call of “my ladies”. His voice is smooth, as the silks that made up her gown, and Lyanna understands suddenly why all her handmaids are thoroughly smitten.

 

A handsome knight, he is, and she cannot deny that he makes her feel things that only her husband should – as with other urges, she used to be able to handle this as well. Because, she’s _been_ there, on the receiving end of gallantry and smooth words and gentle demeanor; she’s been there, knows how it can be, and is not willing to fall for it again.

 

 _Used_ to – now her belly feels full of butterflies, heart picks up its pace and the heat rushes up her neck alarmingly fast and down below. And she wonders, wonders, _wonders_.

 

Lyanna could’ve laughed in relief when the Throne Room comes into view. “I’ll be fine from here,” she says, and smiles, willing the blush to be ignored, “thank you, Ser Jaime.”

 

“I’ll go find your brother then, Your Grace,” he lifts her hand to his lips, kissing the back of it.

 

The pleasant tingle that runs down her spine at the contact is _terrifying_ ; she takes her hand back, and very nearly sprints into the Throne Room, then across to the back door – damn it all, but she refuses to admit she’s running.

 

*****

 

She opens the doors to the Council Room with a loud bang, heart racing and blood thrumming, startling all those inside. Her mind is quick to assess the situation; takes note of Jon Arryn giving her a mildly reproving look, of Stannis clenching his jaw tight enough to make the muscles of his neck stand out, of Ser Barristan and Lomas Estermont blinking in surprise. Tywin Lannister and Lord Varys keep their expressions carefully blank, with mildly placid smiles, and Grand Maester Pycelle has that grandfatherly smile that never fails to make her feel like she’s touched something particularly foul.

 

So far, the usual reactions to her unannounced appearances.

 

She waits a beat before straightening her back, enough to even out her tone.

 

“Out,” she says, notices the shock that ripples through all of them before focusing her eyes on the King.

 

Robert leans back onto his chair, the bored expression he’d born before melting into one of curiosity upon seeing her. He’s also surprised, understandably, as their interactions lately had been reduced to playing with Jon and, while she loves those moment very much, she’s missed the times when it’s just the two of them.

 

Makes her heart _ache_ , knowing the reason for this distance is their inability to find a way to communicate outside the bedchambers. The way they let their grudges and insecurities dictate how to behave around each other out in the open.

              

 _Something must be done; we can’t let people see the cracks in this relationship, not when so many already are waiting for us to fail._ She’s determined to make this marriage work, if not for appearances’ sake, then for Jon and the babe that grows in her belly, even if she has to keep Robert tied to her bed.

 

_And isn’t that a lovely thought._

 

Lyanna feels another pleasant tingle rush through her body, stronger than before, when her mind conjures up that image so very clearly. She folds her hands over her growing belly, and repeats the order.

 

“Out, _now_.”

 

The men go to complain when Robert slams his hand onto the table, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You heard your Queen. _Out_ , now.”

 

The order is clear, as clear as the fact that he’s not amused by their delay. The men don’t hasten to leave, they’re all too proud for that, but they do bow slightly at her on their way out.

 

She waits for the sound of the doors closing tight to move.

 

He stands up as she gets closer, probably to meet her in the middle, but Lyanna raises her hand and he freezes only a step away from his chair. Once she’s close enough, she presses her open hand to his chest—it never ceases to amaze her, how very _big_ her husband is, how she has to tilt her head back to look at him every time they’re this close. And pushes until he falls back onto him rump, then she stops between his splayed legs.

 

He doesn’t seem to be aware of her purpose to come here, until she starts gathering the skirts of her gown up her legs. His nostrils flare, the blue of his eyes gets swallowed by the rapid expanding of his pupils; he shifts on his seat as his eyes travel up and down her body, with an intensity that makes her tingle between her legs. It’s that look she’s grown used to see aimed at her since that fateful night, when their scheduled couplings of two times a month became a daily occurrence. Heated and hungry, with an underlying desperation _and_ —

 

“Lyanna…”

 

Her name is a rumble deep in his chest, and it makes the heat begin spiraling out of control. She climbs onto his lap, settling her knees on each side of his hips, then ever so slowly, Lyanna grinds her hips into his. A constant rocking motion, as if following a canter. Robert groans and grabs at her exposed thighs, looks at her as if he wishes to devour her, as if he were barely restraining himself.

 

_He’s never looked at me like that, though._

 

It makes her think – her couplings with Robert have always been _pleasant_ , she’s never been left wanting, but not particularly daring. It is always with her on her back or on their sides. As expected from what she’d once been told. She doesn’t have much experience; Rhaegar Targaryen had been the only one before Robert and then she’d been afraid and rapidly realizing her choices were dreadfully few to even begin to think about enjoying it. Lyanna can enjoy it now, she _does_ enjoy it now, but she also knows it can be much more than _just_ pleasant. She’s heard whispers among her handmaids, even the knights when they don’t notice when she’s around – she wants to try, see how much truth those whispers hold.

 

“What—” his hands move to squeeze her ass, harder than any other time he’s ever touched her, he very nearly whimpers when he finds her bare underneath “—are you doing?”

 

His hold tightens. _That’s going to leave a bruise,_ she muses, rolls her hips into him once again, forcing a groan past his lips. For all he enjoys ripping at her gowns, Robert is never rough with her. Maybe he really assumes she would not _like_ it— _not like his whores,_ and that is a vicious thought that makes her bold enough to grip the hair at the back of his head and pull. He hisses but can’t do much than that as Lyanna catches his mouth into a bruising kiss.

 

The shudder that ripples through his body fills her with a foreign satisfaction, and suddenly, as she breaks the kiss with another hard pull of his hair, a rush of possessiveness hits her unexpectedly. _Mine,_ she thinks, feels like a snarling direwolf, _mine and I won’t share._ So Robert wants to lay claim on everything he perceived as Rhaegar’s, _good_ , let him do that – but then she’d lay claim on him, on everything she _knows_ to be hers.

 

She drags her lips along his jaw to his ear, then she nips at his earlobe a tad roughly; Robert groans.

 

“I’m trying,” she whispers, free hand trailing down the planes of his abdomen and stopping above his breeches, “to free my husband’s cock, my King, so I can _ride it_.”

 

The laces give ridiculously fast, one tug and she’s sliding her hand under the fabric to wrap her hand about his hardened cock. A small part of her _balks_ at her boldness, her wantonness, but the rest just wants to sink onto him and chase the elusive peak she’d tried to catch earlier that day. And after fumbling around with the skirts of her gown and the opening of his breeches, Lyanna does just that.

 

Her jaw drops slightly as her hands settle on his broad shoulders, her soft “oh” it’s barely a sigh.

 

Robert smirks, there’s this vaguely familiar glint in his eyes as he leans further into the back of the chair and watches her; his hands had left its perch on her ass, one to steady her movements by settling on her hips and the other to toy with the laces of her gown. He lets her set the pace, content in simply watching her, his hand only ever applying pressure on her hips when she started to falter – and as the pressure build, as her cunt fluttered and a tingling sensation began to overtake her senses, she breaks pace a lot.

 

It’s only after it happens, when the ripping of fabric is an echo around them and he’s tugging at her nipple with his teeth, suckling at her like a hungry babe, that Lyanna register her torn gown. Robert did not hold back on this, she sees, tore it all the way down to her waist. He takes over then, steadying her so he can thrust deeper, move harder and faster.

 

“Where’ve you been _hiding_ , Lya?”

 

His smirk is devastating, and she finally can put a name to the spark in his eyes – _thrill_. It’s the same feeling he exudes after a good hunt, a good fight. _A good fuck._ That tears a gasp out of her; his smirk widens, and then he’s standing up, moving closer to the table and sweeping away its content with one broad motion of his arm.

 

Lyanna has no time to protest the fact that he’s slid out of her, that she’s still on the brink of her highest point of pleasure, because he lays her down on the flat surface.

 

“ _Robert_ —” her breath hitches when he flashes her a smile and drops to his knees between her splayed legs “—what are you doing?”

 

There’s a hint of shock before it gets pushed aside by another self-satisfying smirk of his. “Giving my wife the care she deserves, my Queen.”

 

Then his tongue slides up her cunt, once, _twice_ , a third time it pushes through her folds and up, up, up until it nudged that little nub she’s been convinced— _until now_ —Robert knows nothing of. Oh, but he _does_ , her body shakes in pleasure, moans tumbling past her lips that increase in pitch the longer her works his mouth on her, _he knows_.

 

He pushes two finger into her, closes his lips around her nub, flicking his tongue over it and she trashes in response, shaking and shaking and shaking at the impending release.

 

“I—Robert…!”

 

He hums.

 

The tension bursts, back arching off the table – Lyanna is absolutely sure that she cries out, but she can’t find it in herself to care as she comes down from her peak. Not as every single inch of her feels so thoroughly sated and she tries to catch her breath.

 

Another cry, this one decidedly quieter, escapes when she feels her husband’s cock slide into her again.

 

Robert hovers, remains unmoving until her eyes are locked on him. Slowly then, he leans down to kiss her lips – she returns the gesture eagerly. Grabbing at her thighs and encouraging her to wrap her legs around his waist, he straightens up and begins moving; slow, then picking up the pace of his thrusts. A drop of sweat leaves a wet trail down the side of his neck and under the collar of his silk shirt— _silk,_ it’s a stray thought, _Robert shouldn’t be in silks, they’re no material fit for a warrior._

 

She moves before she can even acknowledge her own intentions, hands grabbing at his collar and pulling with as much strength as she can muster in her current state; the growl that escapes Robert is almost as satisfying as the sound of silk ripping apart. He grabs hold of her waist and slams into her with bruising force, dislodging another cry of her throat and— _there_ , Lyanna can feel the tension building up again.

 

“Robert,” Lyanna might have balked at the words that are about to spill out were she not so very gone in the haze of pleasure descending on her, “peak for me.”

 

He spills with a mighty roar, sending her over the edge with him; pumping once, twice, a final time, he slumps onto her with a soft sigh.

 

And there they remain, a tangled, sweating mess on top of the table the Small Council uses to hold their meetings.

 

“That was good,” he props himself up onto his elbows, smiling down at her, looking sated and _happy_ , “I enjoyed it very much.”

 

And Lyanna, she feels much like him, sated and happy and good until she doesn’t. Until reality crashes through their bubble and brings to the surface all the things that are wrong with their relationship. So they cannot communicate like normal people, at normal times, _perfect_.

 

But they can communicate like this, at this time – so they will.

 

“Then why,” her voice trembles, “do you insist on crawling into bed with whores, when you have me right _here_ , in this bloody castle?”

 

Robert blinks, the merriment melting off his face as he cringes in something akin to pain. He tries to move away, his softening cock slipping out of her as he does, but Lyanna halts his retreat, balling up his torn silk shirt and hauling herself up. This way, they’re almost that the same height; she’d never realized how tall this table was.

 

“Lyanna—”

 

“No. You don’t get to run from this conversation,” _neither do I,_ she adds silently, as an afterthought.

 

His jaw clenches furiously. “You think this is me running?”

 

She still won’t let him step away; this close, her legs hanging on either side of his waist still, the bodice of her gown as torn as his shirt, his seed dripping from her onto the table. The evidence of what they’ve done still very vivid among them.

 

“What else, then?”

 

“It’s not—” he pinches the bridge of his nose, huff in frustration “—you _said_.”

 

“Yes, I _said_ , I said but that was _then_ ; this is now!” She gives him a fierce glare, one he returns. “I thought I’d be fine with it. I thought – _considering_ , that I should just accept it. And at first it was fine, I knew nothing of your visits to the brothels, or I simply blinded myself to it. Whatever the case, I was fine.”

 

“Lya…”

 

She lets go on his ruined clothes when he tries to wrap his arms around her, batting his hands away. _No_ , she needs to keep her anger for this – the alternative is not an option she is ready to admit to having right now. His expression crumbles.

 

“You hurt me,” she says, perhaps too harshly, and if her voice trembles again, she can ignore it. “Every time you leave this accursed Keep running to one of your whores, you hurt me. Every day a little more! It’s not even about how you dishonor me, Robert, _you’re hurting me_.”

 

“And how do you think I feel?” His voice booms out and this, right here, is what she wanted; Robert letting go of the anger he kept on a tight leash. “How much it hurt knowing you ran away from our betrothal, over my sleeping around, with a _wedded_ man?”

 

She _hisses_ , rears back as if struck; they’ve never brought up this subject again, not after that brief talk they had at the Tower of Joy. “Don’t make him a part of—”

 

“HE ALREADY IS!” His hands slam against the table in a fury, once, then he turns and walks a few steps away, throwing off his ruined shirt and lacing up his breeches again. “He’s been part of this since the fucking beginning!”

 

“Robert—”

 

“He haunts me every day! A damned shadow hanging over me—over _us_! Constantly,” he breathes in sharply, spins around to face her with a thunderous look. “There’s not a single day that I don’t wonder, about him, about you, about _Jon_ —”

 

Lyanna springs into action then, hackles raised and advancing on her husband menacingly. “Don’t! Do not bring Jon into this, he is innocent of all!”

 

“I know that!” Robert snaps back, just as menacing. “Don’t you think I know that? I love you, Lyanna. Gods be damned, but I love you, more than I probably _should_. I love that boy just as much too!” And then, the fight seems to leave him in a rush, and he slumps onto the chair, dragging his hands down his face. “I hate thinking about it, about that… _dragon_ , but…”

 

The fight leaves her too, and she’s left adrift for a moment. But she feels like this talk, whatever the outcome, is going to make an impact on their relationship. She hopes for the best, that’s all she can do now, once she starts explaining everything.

 

“I made a very stupid and very selfish mistake by running away two years ago,” she says, approaches Robert cautiously as she tries to keep the bodice of her gown closed. “I know that, I live with the knowledge of all I caused every day, Robert, don’t think I forget. I _never_ do.” She laughs, a sad thing tumbling past her lips. “Father and Brandon and the thousands that lost their lives. I’ll carry those deaths with me for the rest of my life.”

 

Robert gives her a sad glance before grabbing one of her hands and pulling her onto his lap. “Why’d you do it?”

 

“I always knew what would be my life once I became a woman grown. Much like any other highborn lady in Westeros.” Almost unconsciously, she trails her finger over the line of his jaw. “I didn’t want that, going from being my lord father’s property to being my lord husband’s. And for the most part, it was easy ignoring that, push it out of my mind while I practiced with swords in secret.”

 

“And then Lord Stark announced our betrothal.”

 

 _Lord Stark._ Lyanna could laugh – she’d thought she was the only one having trouble to think of Ned as Lord Stark. Wonders how her lady mother has managed to cope with that outcome.

 

“I was thirteen, an immature child having her dreams, however unlikely, crushed,” a pause, then she laughs lightly, “it didn’t help, then, knowing you were southron, or that you seemed to be unable to keep to one woman’s bed.”

 

Robert cringes, but she cups his face, bestows a true enough smile upon him.

 

“I know now it wouldn’t have mattered to me if you were as honorable as Ned, I’d still find fault in you.”

 

“Truly? You hated the match that strongly?”

 

“Not because of _you_ , in all honesty,” she’s quick to say, to soothe. “Just because it forced me to realize my dreams of being anything but the Lady of something were ever going to stay that, dreams. I resented Father for it, and you, and Ned when he wouldn’t commiserate with me by saying you were a good man.”

 

Oh, and Ned, her dear brother had been right in the end, Robert _is_ a good man.

 

“Suddenly, what I thought was my freedom to live my life as I saw fit came to a swift end - then Rhaegar came with promises of help." And there it is, the resentment that would not leave her, no matter how hard she tried. "Promises of giving me what I wanted if I would just help him in return.”

 

Her husband growls.

 

Lyanna wonders if Robert knows, about that damned prophecy Rhaegar was so obsessed with, that he’d whispered in her ear when he laid with her with his hand on her belly and calling reverently for his daughter, _Visenya_. Definitely not. She’s no desire to speak of it right now, knows it would only fuel her husband’s ire, and she just wants to put it all behind them.

 

“There was never any love,” she says it because it is something Robert fears, even if he won’t admit it; because it is, at the very core, _the truth_. “He gave me a chance to escape and I took it without thinking of the consequences. That is my burden to carry, what I will always regret.”

 

It has only been two years since. So hard to believe when it felt like an eternity away.

 

Robert brings her closer to his chest, nudging with his nose a red bloom at the base of her neck, courtesy of him. “You regret everything?”

 

“ _Not_ everything,” she says, ghosting a finger over the bite mark she doesn’t remember leaving on his collarbone but that she definitely knows wasn’t there when she ripped open his shirt. “I don’t regret Jon.”

 

Her husband hums, places a kiss under her jaw, and says, “ _Good_ , because I don’t regret him either.”

 

For all his loud declarations of love, it’s the little things – things like _this_ , that tells her Robert means each and every single one of them.

 

And here she wishes more than anything she could return the sentiment fully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only romantic relationship for Lyanna and Robert is going to be the one they have with each other. No one else. I felt the need to clarify it, just in case people wonder about the added tags.


	3. kings and cowherds alike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He shouldn’t do that, Robert knows, he shouldn’t seek out what it is _Rhaegar_ left behind in this boy. _He left nothing._ It’s a thought that pleases him tremendously – the Stark blood won out in the end, the wolf blood, _Lyanna’s blood_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picks up right after last chapter.

“You interrupted a very important meeting.”

 

She takes her sweet time in replying to his statement; Robert doesn’t mind it, runs the back of his fingers over her arm, musing how very happy he is for the heat here in King’s Landing once again, to make his lady wear such revealing gowns.

 

“Don’t lie, Your Grace,” the brush of her lips over his collarbone has him squirming in no time. “It’s unbecoming.”

 

“I do not lie.”

 

“You were complaining just this morning, about having a day full of _boring_ and _pointless_ meetings with your Small Council.”

 

He grins, not being able to refute that, and lets himself relax fully. A year has gone by and Robert still struggles to find control over his emotions whenever it comes to his wife; most of the time, it leaves him exhausted. Today, he feels strangely unburdened – _suddenly_ , the world isn’t putting pressure on him anymore. He strokes his other hand up her leg, over her hip and onto her belly, slipping his fingers under the torn fabric of her bodice. And, oh, he should feel regretful, for being eager and rough with her, but Robert – he can’t help it.

 

“I ought to take you to see Maester Pycelle,” he says, rubbing his fingers over the thin lines her first pregnancy had left behind, barely noticeable to the touch.

 

 _Once_ , Robert had thought that seeing the evidence of her pregnancy—the result of what’d happened—would be what it took to break the hold Lyanna had on his godsdamned heart, that it would make him desire her less. Because, even with Jon cradled in her arms, he’d loved her still and tried to blind himself to the truth. But then they’d talked, had that _one_ brutally honest conversation they’d ought to have long, long ago; _then_ he’d had her bare in front of him on their wedding night. Then, Robert had to admit to the bitter truth.

 

Nothing Lyanna did would ever make him stop desiring her; nothing would make him stop _loving_ her.

 

“I might have been a tad too rough just now.” Her belly is rounding out perfectly and he spreads his fingers over it to appreciate it better, imagining. _Our child is in there_ , he thinks, both thrilled and apprehensive. “The babe—”

 

“—Is fine,” she interrupts, shifting over his lap once again. “And I wasn’t complaining.”

 

 _Aye_ , the heat rushes through him once again at the remembrance and his body reacts accordingly, _I noticed_. He tries to curb it, this uncontrollable longing that surges for Lyanna, lest he were to overwhelm her. Robert had thought that once he’s bedded her it would lessen, perhaps go away – let them go back to sharing a bed twice a month, let him sate his more depraved urges with whores, not his lady wife. But the desire hasn’t gone away, nor lessened. And those three months he’d kept to Lyanna’s bed, kept to their new nightly routine, were the _happiest_ he’s been since the Tourney of Harrenhal.

 

 _Just me, Lyanna and Jon._ He wants those moments back; the laugher and the intimacy and the sense of family. But then Maester Pycelle’s words would come back and all the reasons why he’s stayed away from his wife’s bed come rushing back.

 

_“It might hurt the babe if you keep bedding the Queen, Your Grace.”_

 

Words that circle his head constantly; but that he sees now have cause the one thing he always wished to avoid—

 

_“You hurt me!”_

 

—and Robert is at a loss on how to proceed now.

 

“Even so, I shouldn’t have—”

 

“Robert, it’s all right,” she says, firmly and straightens up to look at him. “No babes have ever been harmed when the expecting mothers laid with their husbands.”

 

He takes a different approach, then, because he _worries_ —he worries his advances are only accepted out of duty. Robert doesn’t want that; in none of the many imaginings he had of a marriage with Lyanna does she bears his advances because she _must_. In those dreams, she welcomes him because it is her desire as well. _“I didn’t say no,”_ those had been her words, when he’d asked whether or not Rhaegar had forced himself on her. _“I didn’t say no.”_ But she didn’t say yes, either.

 

_I want her to say yes._

 

“What are you saying, Lyanna?”

 

“I’m saying… that if you must fall into a woman’s bed, then fall into mine.” She lifts her chin, gives him an unwavering look, and says, “If you feel the urge to fuck, then _fuck me_. I won’t have you run off to a brothel to satisfy your needs.”

 

“What if my urges never lessen, then? What if I crave you every night, every day?” His words are bluntly spoken, but his frayed nerves cannot take anymore teasing, and having her on his lap, the evidence of their desperate coupling still very much in full sight, _well_. He’s no time to be delicate about this now. “Because I do, I crave you always, Lyanna. Would if I could fuck you every hour, every day. Gods, but the things I want to _do_ to you… You’d think me depraved.”

 

She laughs then, a sweet sound tumbling past her lips, disbelieving – and seven fucking hells but if the sight of her doesn’t make him love her even more _now_. “I interrupted a Council meeting to—” and the words fails her, but his Lyanna, she as stubborn as she is wild and keeps on regardless of her burning cheeks “—to get you to fuck me. Because I craved you desperately, if that _doesn’t_ —what of the things _I_ want to do to you?”

 

His heart trips over her words, beats erratically at their underlying meaning; Robert barely recognizes his own voice when he speaks next, hoarse and faint. “What are you saying, Lya?”

 

“I want my bed to be the only bed you seek.” Her stare is piercing. “ _Promise me_ , Robert.”

 

“I—” He can’t promise something he’s not sure he’ll manage, but _Gods_ he can try. “I promise you I’ll try, I will try my _godsdamned_ best to keep to your bed.”

 

And maybe it won’t be hard, after all, he’d managed it once already – for three full months, he’d not strayed and had not felt the need to do so either. Maybe, this is what they need to begin moving forward to that dream he once had. Where she loves him as much as he loves her.

 

Lyanna considers his answer for a moment, but then nods, and then leans in for another kiss that is quick to evolve into something else entirely.

 

*****

 

Old Jon makes sure to keep the hallways vacated for when they finally decide to leave the Council Room. Had said not a word when Robert had emerged from it with his wife cradled in his arms and wrapped up in his cloak; shirtless and barely holding onto his breeches, with little bruises blooming all across his chest and back. The man had simply sighed and told them he’d handle the petitions and see to the documents Lyanna had yet to review, that they need not worry.

 

Robert thanks him and moves away quickly, ignoring the silent form of the Kingslayer shadowing his steps. Not that he calls him that to his face, not out of fear, but because Lya had asked him not to.

 

_“But he killed his King—”_

 

_“He killed the mad man that murdered my father and brother, that ordered the burning of countless innocent people.”_

 

Once he crosses the threshold to his wife’s chambers, he gives orders to her maids to prepare a bath, and then places Lyanna on her bed. Watches her sigh and pull his cloak tighter around her shoulders, laying down sideways on her pillow.

 

Robert shifts on his feet, then kneels next to her bed, tucking a lock of brown hair behind her ear as an afterthought. “Are you certain you don’t wish to sleep first?”

 

Lyanna gives him a lazy smile. “I’d like a bath first. And Jon, he’d be getting hungry any time now. Could you…?”

 

“I’ll go get him.”

 

But Robert doesn’t hurry out of her chambers until the maids have the tub filled with water and are ready to tend to their Queen. Only after Robert had carried her and placed Lyanna into the steaming water does he leave, stopping by his chambers to clean himself, to change his clothes, and then retraces his steps to the nursery. He stops before crossing the threshold. He always stops before crossing the threshold, _observing_ , taking in every detail there is about the little boy currently sitting on the carpeted floor, wooden toys scattered around his little form. He watches, attentively, as he’s done since storming that godsforsaken Tower in his desperation to reach her side. As he’s done since his eyes had taken in the small face, dark wisps of hair atop a small head, and hazy grey eyes.

 

_(A strike of luck had spared him of suffering a grievous injury at the hands of Rhaegar Targaryen; the slip of a horse, his own warhammer ramming against an arm and forcing a sword to fall in the shallows of the Red Fork. Because then came another swing of it, piercing breastplate and chest, and the Dragon Prince had been no more. And after – the rumors of a tower hiding among the Red Mountains of Dorne; at King’s Landing, a certainty that had him running off along with Ned, to save his beloved.)_

 

Robert watches, attentively, silently, _seeking_ ; and every time, he comes up with nothing but gestures and hints of Lyanna lurking in every line of Jon’s features. Sometimes he even catches glimpses of Ned and little Benjen and Brandon. He shouldn’t do that, Robert knows, he shouldn’t seek out what it is _Rhaegar_ left behind in this boy. _He left nothing._ It’s a thought that pleases him tremendously – the Stark blood won out in the end, the wolf blood, _Lyanna’s blood_.

 

That makes him smile.

 

As if sensing his heavy gaze on him, Jon looks up from his toys, straight at him, and gives him a blinding grin that Robert finds impossible not to return in kind. The little one squeals excitedly, placing both hand on the floor and pushing himself onto his feet – and then he runs as fast as he can without toppling over towards him. He meets him in the middle, hoists him up into his arms among excited giggles; Jon reaches out, pats his scruffy chin, then grins and put his little finger on his lips:

 

_“Shhh.”_

 

Robert grins, taps his little nose, and shushes back at him. _A secret_ , he thinks, remembers why Jon makes shushing sounds. _Our secret_ , he smiles as the boy presses his little face to his neck. When he looks up, the nursemaid drops into a hasty curtsy, then fidgets with her gown anxiously; Benjen gives him a contemplative look, but other than nod, doesn’t do much to acknowledge him.

 

“Lyanna wants me to bring Jon—?” Benjen stops at the horrifying gasp that escapes the nursemaid, blushes in embarrassment once he realizes how very casual he’s been with the _King_ in front of the household. “Forgive me, Your Grace. Does the Queen wishes to see Prince Jon?”

 

He could tease him mercilessly about this faux pas, but Robert is eager to return to Lyanna's side and even more eager to spend some quiet time today away from any and all reminders  of his kingly duties, so he simply shakes his head and says, “Ser Barristan should be in the training yard, if you want to catch up with him. There’ll be no more meetings today.”

 

Benjen nods, grinning enthusiastically as any boy of five-and-ten would, always happy to receive training from Barristan the Bold. He ruffles Jon’s hair on his way to the door, a shade lighter than his own, eliciting a bout of giggles from the toddler, and then he rushes down the hallway.

 

“Your Grace? Should I make sure the little Prince is ready for the Queen?”

 

The soft voice barely manages to reach him, but Robert hears and he turns to look at the nursemaid intently. A slip of a girl, she looks to be about Lyanna’s age; blonde and pretty. The first time he’s really laid eyes on her, as the matter of Jon’s nursemaid had been overseen by Old Jon and Lyanna; Robert would never admit it, not out loud, but he wouldn’t quite trust himself around them, these girls that were called to look after the little one. Even the maids milling about the Keep, doing their job yet still managing to shamelessly flirt when his wife is not looking.

 

Just as this girl is doing now – fluttering her eyes and giving him a coy smile. The only thing left to do is for her to cling to his arm and push her chest against his side, it’s what some had done, before he’s forced himself to beat a hasty retreat, it’s what the whores do when he steps into the brothel. He’s sworn to be discreet, at the very least; he would not bed any other woman under the roof he shares with his wife.

 

_My wife. My Lyanna._

 

The only woman he’s ever wanted.

 

_“Then why do you insist on crawling into bed with whores, when you have me right here, in this bloody castle?”_

 

Robert shakes his head to disperse his thoughts, lifts Jon off his shoulder so they may be face to face. “What say you, Jon? Do you need to change?” He flips the boy around, amidst horrified gasps from the girl and loud laughter from the toddler; upside down, Jon squirms happily, reaching for him. He sniffs around the little rump sticking up in the air, and is happy to find it devoid of odors. “I say you’re presentable enough.”

 

Another round of horrified gasps, followed by even louder laughter, and Robert is cradling the babe properly in his arms again. He turns and begins to walk away, halting any more attempts at conversation, however rude it is. “Have his toys delivered to the Queen’s solar.”

 

No, he would not trust himself alone with the women within the Keep, not for long periods of time. But he promised Lyanna he would try to be fully faithful, and by the _Gods_ , but he will. He _will_ try.

 

And he’ll succeed.

 

*****

 

It’s always the screams that _get_ to him.

 

Running up a hill, towards a tall tower; running, running, _running_. Ned lags behind, Robert comes upon three members of Aerys’ Kingsguard; he thinks to stop, _he ought to stop_ , perhaps there won’t be the need to spill more blood. There shouldn’t, not with the war now over; if he talks, he can convince them to lay down their weapons. He’s been doing it plenty during the past year.

 

But then the screaming begins – that's Lyanna, that's Lyanna, _that's Lyanna_.

 

Then there's only red— _blood, blood, blood_ —on his face and hands and clothes and everywhere, everywhere, _everywhere_ , and the screaming won't stop. And then Robert is rushing up the stairs, and then he falls on his knees and the blood permeates the air and the sheets and—

 

_Lyanna is hurting._

 

—Robert wakes up.

 

He doesn't sit up abruptly, remains still and panting, eyes fixed on the canopy of the bed as his mind scrambled to make sense of what he'd seen. _A dream_ , he thinks, heart thundering within his chest as he struggles to pull the sheets off him. _Just a dream. That's all over now._ When he finally sits up, taking deep breaths, Robert looks around the bedchambers in contemplation. It takes him a minute, and the shifting of the featherbed under the weight of a body that is certainly _not_ his, to remember where he is.

 

“Oh.”

 

He looks at her – laying there, alive and well and peaceful. _And his_. He drags his hand down his face, wiping some of the sweat off, and resists the urge to _touch her_ , make fucking sure she's real and that he didn't lose her to… _No_. Robert relents, however, to his impulses and leans closer to drop a kiss to her cheek, presses his hand to her chest to feel her breathing. _She's all right_. Pulling away reluctantly, he scoots the the edges of the bed, with a heavy sigh, he stands up and walks towards the corner of the bedchambers, where a basin rests next to a jar of cold water.

 

Spring is yet to leave, yet the heat that seems to wrap around Robert feels much too familiar, much too _suffocating_ , even as bare as he is, like the hottest of summers. _Don’t think about that._ He splashes water onto his face, grabs the cloth folded next to the basin and soaks it enough to leave it dripping, then passes it over his fevered skin until he’s cooled down some. _Gods be damned._ He’d thought it would pass; nightmares, they _ought_ to have passed already. Robert dips the cloth once more into the water, wrings it and leaves it hanging off the edge. With a last glance at his sleeping wife, he picks up his breeches from where he’d dropped them earlier in the evening, and puts them on before walking to the doors leading to the nursery.

 

The curtains sways to the wind, and through the moonlit room he catches sight of Jon sitting up in his crib, playing with his toys and babbling to himself.

 

He remembers so very little of what happened after he heard Lyanna's screams. It's been over a year, and most of his recollection of the fight comes from Ned – Robert only remembers coming into a room that reeked of blood and echoed with heart-rending cries. He remembers Lyanna, laying among blood-stained sheets and dissolving into incoherent mumblings. Remembers taking off his helmet and falling at her side, _begging_ , begging and begging and holding her hand.

 

And _crying_ – Gods, he remembers crying.

 

_(The armor constrains him, weights him down and suffocates him, Robert can't take it. Forcefully, he pulls at it, tearing off the leather straps and throwing it all aside; then he climbs onto the bloodied sheets, and gently, **gently** , pulls Lyanna closer to his chest. And then she starts convulsing – then, the screaming begins anew.)_

 

“Papa!” The happy call rings loud within these walls; it takes a moment, but Jon gasps and places both hands over his mouth while looking around the nursery, before tuning to grin at him once more. He presses a little finger to his lips, “shhh!”

 

Robert grins weakly, and walks closer to the crib. “It’s all right, Jon, no one’s around.”

 

“Papa,” his call is softer now, but his smile is brighter; Jon reaches for him just as Robert goes to pick him up. “Papa, woof!”

 

“Aye, aye, I’ll get your wolf.” Grabbing the wooden toys in hand, the whole lot of them, Robert walks them to the middle of the chambers, where the moonlight shines brighter, and sits. “There you go.”

 

The little one begins to arrange his toys to his satisfaction, babbling to himself softly and even making battle sounds; it is as Jon is making two figurines clash that Robert notices something he missed when grabbing the toys.

 

“Where did you get this?” He picks up one of them – _a stag_. “Jon, who gave this to you?”

 

Jon grins, waves the wooden wolf in his hand, and exclaims, “Mama!”

 

He flounders, not knowing what to think; is that an answer to his question or a manifestation of what Jon understands about the world around him? _Can_ he understand, being so little?

 

“Papa, you.”

 

“Me?”

 

“You,” repeats the toddler, patting the wooden stag in his hand and then his scruffy cheek. “Me!” And he picks up a smaller wolf, a dimpled smile aimed at him; then he insist they play.

 

There’s no real reenactment of any specific battle in their game, Jon makes clashing sounds, and soon Robert is making them too, adding explosion sounds and whatever else he may think of. Amidst the game, his enjoyment at spending some much needed time with Jon, amidst all – his mind wanders back, back, _back_ to a much to specific and detailed battle, one he’ll carry with him to the death, he’s sure. He watches his hand move the stag to topple over a bunch of wooden soldiers, listens to Jon’s delighted giggles and vaguely, the thought comes – _the dragon is missing, how can I slay it if it won’t show up? When will he come?_ Another bunch of toys gets knocked over, this time a bit more harder than intended; Jon giggles again.

 

_When will Rhaegar come to face his death?_

 

The rest of the toys suffer his mounting anger; the little one keeps laughing in delight.

 

And he _remembers_.

 

_(The agonizing days that follow; Lyanna drifting in and out of consciousness, the babe crying for his mother, Ned fearing for his sister, for the people who’ve been witness to his sister’s imprisonment, for the babe – **the babe**. Crying and crying and **crying** while Robert prays and begs and swears to place himself at the mercy of the Gods if they would just— **Save her, please, please save her. I’ll do anything, anything just, please. Please don’t – don’t take her.** A never-ending litany, on and on, until his voice goes raw, until his body sags against the bed in exhaustion. Until her eyes open; until she looks at him, intently, and calls his name. Robert knows then, a deep-rooted certainty, what will happen once they leave the Tower of Joy. There’s never been any other choice, not for him.)_

 

The jolt of pain shooting up his arm, sharp and unforgiving, snaps his focus back to the present. He loosens the grip of his hand, slowly splaying his fingers as the blood drips onto the floor. _The antlers_ , he thinks, watching his blood run through the grooves of the figurine; his eyes move onto Jon then, watching intently as he keeps playing, oblivious to the turmoils running through his head. _How easy would it be?_ Jon is only a babe, impressionable, susceptible, an easy target for any adult surrounding him. How easy would it be to fill his head with disdain, with hateful thoughts about the man who sired him? Have him grow up to revile and curse Rhaegar Targaryen. To abhor the Targaryen line as a whole? How easy?

 

 _Too easy_ , he thinks, blood pumping rapidly through his veins, _too fucking easy._

 

A lesser man would, he realizes. A lesser man would fill that innocent mind with the vilest of tales— _the truth_ , snarls a voice in the back of his head, _it's only ever the truth_ —the most horrible lies. A lesser man; _any_ man. _“I’ll be good,”_ he remembers saying, earnestly once, what it feels like an eternity ago. _“I’ll be good to him, a true father, I promise you that.”_ It grounds him, that memory; _once_ , he promised to be better. And he’ll keep that promise; he’ll keep all the damn promises he’s made since.

 

“Jon.”

 

“Me, yes!”

 

He meets those grey eyes, drops the stag on the floor, and motions for him to come closer. “Jon,” he repeats, pulling the babe up into his arms, heedless of the blood that will stain his clothing, and face to face with him. “Who am I?”

 

Dimpled smile and bright eyes; Jon had grabbed a hold of his heart the very moment he set his eyes on him.

 

“Papa,” the little one says softly, knocking his little forehead against his bigger one. “Papa, me?”

 

“You… are my son.” Robert brings him closer, places a kiss to his temple and repeats, “my son. You are _mine_.”

 

“Mama?”

 

He nods, even though Jon cannot see. “Yes. Mama, too.”

 

“Mine,” the little one parrots back, a new word for him. “Mine, mine, mine!”

 

All of this, he knows, would've been Rhaegar's; the keep and the crown and the responsibility of seven kingdoms on his shoulders. The petitions and complaints and the endless meetings to be had for ideas of how to move the realm towards a better place. It _should've_ been Rhaegar's.

 

If he'd left Lyanna alone.

 

_Now it's mine. The keep and the crown and the weight of the realm on my shoulders. Lyanna and Jon and the babe that rests in her womb, the babes that will come. All of it._

 

“It's all mine…”

 

*****

 

_“If you…”_

 

The heat, Robert hates it. Dry and unrelenting, suffocating, he much prefers it when night falls and he can _pretend_. Close his eyes and let the cool air hit his face, imagine it's Storm's End.

 

_“If you spare him, let Ned take him, I—”_

 

Storm's End, with the sounds of the crashing waves and the smell of salt and the dream of a perfect life next to his lady wife.

 

“If you would still have me, Robert, I'll wed you. But please, please…”

 

Vaguely, he thinks begging is not becoming on her, not on his Lyanna. Suddenly, he wonders if she had to _beg_ that – that fucking _dragon_ for… _for_. He shakes his head haltingly, cutting off her speech, and strides quickly to her side, stopping only when she starts and flinches. And then the pain and hatred mingle in his gut and he wishes for Rhaegar Targaryen to be _alive_ , if only be may kill him again.

 

Slowly, slowly so he may _suffer_.

 

“I'll have you,” he says, seeks permission to grab her hands; she lets him. “Of course I'll have you, my lady, and the babe.”

 

“You'll have him as well?”

 

Only for her. Because the babe is her son, through and through; little as he is, Robert can see who he'll resemble. _A Stark_ , he thinks, _I can be a father to a Stark. I planned to be one from the start._

 

This changes nothing.

 

“Aye, I'll have him as well.” Tentatively, he lifts her hands to place a kiss on her knuckles. “I'll be good. I'll be good to him, a true father, I promise you that.”

 

She nods, relieved, but still holds herself so very tightly and carefully – he must ask. He must, _he needs to know_.

 

“Lyanna… Lyanna, you must tell me. Did he… did he—?”

 

The pain is sharp and unforgiving and makes him hiss his discomfort. Robert blinks – and blinks again, trying to gain the focus to discern his surroundings.

 

_This isn't Dorne._

 

He feels it again, the stinging sensation that makes him want to reclaim his injured hand, but the firm grip on his wrist prevents him. It still takes him a moment to understand what is happening.

 

“Lya…”

 

She wears an unreadable expression, as her eyes focus on the punctures on his palm, on the movement of her own hand, running a damp cloth over the wound. Her grip is firm as she works diligently on cleaning his hand, the stinging is less of a bother now, so he relaxes, waiting for his wife to be done.

 

“You gave me a fright,” she says at length. “When I woke up and saw the bloodstains…”

 

“Forgive me, it was…” There's a pause as he tries to gather his thoughts, to shake off the remains of his dream. “I was playing with Jon and—”

 

“Yes, I know. I saw the stag.” Lyanna leans down to place the dirty cloth on a bowl resting by her feet, then picks up some bandages, and begins to wrap them around his hand. “What upset you? It must've been something of importance, these punctures were deep.”

 

The mention of the stag brings his focus to the toddler still sleeping on his chest. Robert lifts his head, catching sight of Jon's little rump sticking up in the air and the bloodstains he'd left there when he'd picked him up after he grew tired of playing. On his chubby cheek and little back as he’d lulled him to sleep. He’d not thought about it at the time, being tired as well, he’d only brought Jon to bed with him hoping his reassuring presence would help him get some peaceful rest.

 

_(The horse whines and stomps its hooves once he pulls on the reins, stopping at the gates of the Red Keep. Old Jon looks angry and worried as he watches him dismount, and vaguely, so vaguely, Robert notices Tywin Lannister moving closer. He ignores them both as he turns to help Lyanna dismount his horse as well, since she wouldn't be able to do so alone. But as soon as their hands connect, she gasps, squeezing his fingers—)_

 

He blinks, sight narrowing on the bloodstains marring the the skin and clothes of this innocent babe.

 

_(—the horror as she looks behind him has Robert turning with a snarl, ready to face anyone who dares threaten his lady. **And then he freezes** , the blood drains from his face; distantly, he hears Tywin Lannister speak of offerings and new kings. Robert hears none of it, Robert sees none of it; nothing but the sight being presented to him. Two small bundles, wrapped in red though it does little to **hide the horror**.)_

 

He’d kept the babe lying on his chest because the possessive rush had not left him, _not then_ , not now; Robert wonders if it’ll _ever_. But last night – last night it'd been more than that, what made him cling to Jon. The possessive rush and the memories _and the ghosts that haunt him still_.

 

_(He staggers back, away from the butchered bodies of Rhaenys and Aegon Targaryen. Back, back, back until his back hits the horse and Lyanna clings painfully to his hand. And then it all shifts – **and that's Mya, that's my Mya, dead and broken and** – and then it was Jon, the same babe in cradled Lyanna's arms and Robert can't, can't, **can't**.)_

 

“Robert!”

 

He feels hands trying to pull his away from Jon's little body and he resists, not wanting to let go— _he's in danger_ —but then the hands are on his face, forcing him to look up. Soothing, combing through his tangled hair, stroking his cheeks, and it takes a while, and the squirming of the babe for him to fully snap out of it.

 

“I…”

 

“It's all right,” Lyanna says, stroking his face once more before taking Jon into her arms gently, the little one on the brink of waking up. “You're all right.”

 

“Lyanna… I'm – please, forgive me.”

 

“Forgive you, for what?”

 

“I should not trouble you with my burdens.” He sighs, drags a hand down his face as he slumps forward. “I should not be this _weak_ , letting meaningless dreams do this—”

 

Her hand on his cheek makes him pause. Lyanna gives him a worried look and holds firm, refusing to let him avert his eyes.

 

“Those are not meaningless dreams, and I do not mind,” she says. “Yes, as King you must be seen as strong, but I am your _wife_ , Robert. I should hope you would be comfortable enough to lean on me, if you were to need it.” Then she pauses, drops her gaze as if to gather her courage, before looking up resolutely. “We must be able to trust each other enough to seek help. If we can't do that… why are we even here?”

 

Robert licks his lips, eyes dropping to Jon's back and the blood, and then he looks back up. “...I can't stop thinking…” he says, throat suddenly dry. “How I should have done something about it, to prevent it somehow.”

 

“Prevent what?”

 

“The deaths of Princess Elia and her children… the _way_ they were all…”

 

Often, he wonders. Had he been faster, had he killed Rhaegar sooner, would he had make it in time? Would his army had reached King’s Landing before Tywin Lannister? Would he had stayed or rushed off as he actually did once the rumors…? _But Lyanna – I had to find her, it couldn't wait._ Robert likes to think, he would've saved them, gave them a choice to be stripped of all claims and then exiled to Dorne. Or anywhere they wanted to go.

 

“That wasn’t your fault… Robert, I was there when—”

 

“I _know_ that. Yet I can’t help but wonder.”

 

His wife laughs, soft and humorless, and grabs his injured hand tightly; the pain grounds him.

 

“I know,” she replies. “It’s hard to avoid doing that. Wondering, _the what if_ , but it’ll get you nowhere. I ought to know. You did what you could, when you could.”

 

Robert doesn’t think he’ll ever meet a man as ruthless as Tywin Lannister, the one to present the bodies of Rhaenys and Aegon Targaryen to him; how quickly he twisted the story to place the blame on Gregor Clegane’s and Amory Lorch’s shoulders. _“I sent them to capture them,”_ he had said, moments before both Lorch and Clegane had lunged to attack. Robert had been in high enough alert to avoid being crushed by the man many called The Mountain, but felling him was a struggle, one that only stopped with the man’s death. Lorch had been slain by then, by other Lannister soldiers.

 

 _“I never expected them to commit such a horrible crime, Your Grace, had I known…”_ There had been no remorse in those eyes, but with many _claiming_ to have been witnesses to Clegane’s and Lorch’s going against orders… There really hadn’t been much he could _do_.

 

“How do you…” he trails off, dragging his free hand down his face. _Cope_. How does she cope? He’d like to know; clinging to her and Jon while he sleeps cannot be the only way to find peace.

 

“Focus on something else.”

 

A non-answer that makes him smile, however bitterly. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way; the war should have been the end of it. Just… just like it is in the songs.”

 

Robert had fought the good fight, had rescued the maiden in the tower, and even if that hadn’t turned out to be perfect as he’d expected, it was still _good_. He got the girl, he got the crown; he should’ve gotten the happily ever after as well.

 

“Life is not a song.” Lyanna laughs again, a humorless and broken thing that makes her look both older and as the girl of one-and-seven she still is. “You and I… we had to learn that the hard way.”


	4. king robert's court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King’s Landing – what a spectacular view it presents from Blackwater Bay, imposing and majestic, yet all Ned sees, every time he blinks, are the scattered corpses of its citizens as he rushed his horse towards the Red Keep.

 

His attention comes and goes, along with her consciousness; drifts in and out of focus, sharpens when Lyanna is strong enough to grip his hand, is lucid enough to recognize him and _ask_. About Ned, the war, Brandon and Lord Stark, about Benjen and Lady Stark and the men who’d kept her locked inside this blasted tower.

 

She asks about _the babe_.

 

The squalling little bundle that’s being guarded constantly, by northern and stormland soldiers alike, by Ned himself when the man could be persuaded to leave his feverish sister’s bedside, when he’s not barking orders to bring clean linens, water, and a maester – _bring me a godsdamned maester!_ Ned, his dearest friend, the brother he’s chosen, running around giving out orders like the lord he’ll soon have to be, stretching himself thin while _Robert_ – while he simply sits next to Lyanna praying to the Gods, Old and New, for her to get _better_. Avoiding thinking of the very real possibility that she might _not make it_ , because the bleeding might have stopped but the _fever_ hasn’t. _Why isn’t it stopping?_ He keeps pressing a cloth soaked in cold water to her face and neck, at regular intervals, _so why isn’t it working?_

 

Hardly anyone pays attention to him; Robert is _glad_ for his temper simmers underneath the surface, a raging storm awaiting to be unleashed – the wrong word, the wrong move, anyone would suffer the brunt of it. So remaining by her side, allowing whatever small comfort he can take from holding her cold and clammy hand, willing her to break free of her feverish delirium, it is all he can do.

 

Until a maester finally arrives, after what feels like an eternity, from Nightsong, not the closest castle to this accursed tower but certainly the only one within an acceptable riding distance. A safe choice too, House Caron is a vassal of his. Only then does Robert let Ned convince him to go get some fresh air, go wash, eat, sleep. Anything that would help to pass the time; _his brother_ , it is because he assures him, because Ned tells him he’ll remain by Lyanna’s side, that Robert finally moves from the bed. He hears something about milk of the poppy before the door closes at his back.

 

He's conscious of stepping out of the tower, of walking what feels like hours into the nearest river, but it's the shock of cold water what snaps him out of his numbness. Sharp and unforgiving, but just what he needs now. _I need… a clear head._ He strips and washes off the grime and dried blood as best he can, ignoring the cold of the water and the wind, until his skin is scrubbed raw. He washes his clothes and hangs them from a low branch of a dornish yew and waits for the setting sun and the wind to dry them up.  He stays in the water until the tips of his fingers wrinkle and the rest of his skin prickles as if punctured with thousands of little needles, until the sun has set over the mountains and the cold wind hits his bare body painfully. Until he can't delay it anymore.

 

Robert pulls his damp clothes back on and retraces his steps to the tower. By the time the dark shadow of the edifice comes into view, the moon's big and round and halfway up to its highest point. And there's silence, overwhelming, suffocating silence. He places a foot on the steps, freezes, the sounds of a raucous commotion reaches his ears, and then rushes up the winding stairs, heart in his throat and grief breaking free of it's chains – then comes the _explosion_.

 

_“What have you done, woman!?”_

 

The babe cries; heart-rending wails that make Robert want to pick him up and _protect_ him. But among the cries and the screams of the soldiers, Robert catches sight of a northman scurrying out of Lyanna's room, and he seizes him by the neck of his tunic, panic clouding his judgment.

 

“What happened?” He demands, belatedly realizing who it is he's grabbed, who it is he’s shaking; _Howland Reed._ “Lyanna?”

 

“My lady is well, sleeping. The maester gave her an infusion for the fever and the… wounds, and dreamwine to help her rest. I'm—” The little crannogman shakes his head, casting worried looks towards the nursery. “I was told to—”

 

Robert lets him go brusquely, and storms into the nursery, where the agitated soldiers stand protectively around the crudely made crib, glaring at the nursemaid.

 

“I didn't – _haven't_. The little Prince…”

 

“What have you done?” Robert says, a whisper that cuts across the commotion abruptly, menacing. He hisses. _“What have you done?”_

 

The nursemaid gasps, drops her eyes meekly, soft whimpers betray the presence of another maid, tucked in a corner and shaking badly. Both crying out denials, both begging for mercy – pathetic.

 

“The – the babe started crying suddenly, my lord,” Balon says, hurriedly. “We don't know what these _dragon’s whores_ did to him.”

 

“Give him to me.”

 

The words shock him as much as they do his men, Robert knows not what has prompted him to speak them, but once out there, he realizes he means it. The soldiers step aside at the same time the women wail in outrage, rushing at him. He’s barely enough time to turn, but his men are already stopping their advance; Robert turns his back on them, stepping closer to the crib – the babe keeps crying.

 

His hands twitch at his sides as he stares at the squalling boy, ignores the commotion at his back, thinks the babe has a powerful set of lungs on him; his hands twitch at his sides and then he reaches out, stroking the wisps of brown hair with surprising gentleness, and then, just as gently, rubs the tears off his reddened cheeks – the babe stops crying.

 

He blinks rapidly, unfocused grey-blue eyes still manage to lock on him; a hiccup and then another whimper, his little chin trembles and before he knows it, Robert is lifting him up and cradling him against his chest. The stark contrast of his big, calloused and scarred hands and his tiny body is terrifying and—how easy? How easy would it be to end such fragile life? _Too fucking easy._ Robert lifts him off his chest, keeps him perfectly balanced, a firm grip, with one hand holding his bottom and back and the other his head – much like he used to do with Mya when she’d just been born. The babe whimpers and squirms and blinks and Robert looks upon him and then—

 

 _Oh,_ comes the stray thought, _oh, he looks like a tiny, grumpy Ned._

 

***  
***

 

Waking up to the _bang, bang, bang_ of a sledgehammer is preferable to waking up to the screams that still live inside his head; to the chatter of workmen, and the sounds of stone and marble coming apart, eroding the last of the Targaryen signs around the Red Keep. An impossible thought, but would if he could order for the demolition of the whole castle and then build a new one, to make the final transition between dynasties definite. Feeling that switching banners and carving new crests – it is not enough.

 

For a moment Robert considers remaining in bed all day; it is still early, shortly after dawn from what he can see by the soft streams of light that filter through the curtains. He's no desire to get up but knows he should probably, at least, make an appearance before his Small Council for a little while – see if he can get away with another free day. _I'm the King, I can do whatever I want._ He closes his eyes, enjoys the warmth emanating from his wife, and snuggles closer; Lyanna mumbles in her sleep, it makes him smile. _I'll give my excuses to Jon, and come back here._

 

And he prepares to do just that, but as soon as he steps out of Lyanna's chambers, he's ambushed by the man himself. Old Jon nags him until he's back in his own chambers getting ready to face the day.

 

“Two days, Robert, I've given you two days to rest. I cannot give you more.” Old Jon gives him a severe glare. “I'll be expecting you in the Council's rooms, _do not_ try to lock yourself away with Lyanna again.” He turns to leave, but pauses at the doors to look at him one last time. “You’ve no more need of it, she is already with child.”

 

He leaves before he can reply, Robert waits a few minutes after the the doors close to sigh in frustration. While he won’t lie and say laying with Lyanna is not part of the reason why he’d taken a leave of absence; it’s not the sole reason. He thinks two days is not nearly enough for him to rest well; it’s been a little under a year of his reign and he is completely exhausted, but then he'd jumped from fighting a war to ruling seven kingdoms. He’s willing to admit he had been ill-prepared for this – seven hells, he’d probably been ill-prepared to take the mantle of Lord of Storm’s End too. But he had been looking forward to go _home_ , with Lyanna, even Jon; try to make his parents proud, fill the halls of Storm’s End with the sweet sound of children _laughing_.

 

_I never wanted this._

 

Once he's ready, he makes a detour on his way to another session of boring meetings, in a show of quiet rebellion. Picks up Jon from the nursery, and takes him with him. He might’ve smirked had he not known that would be pushing it. The men sitting on the table make no comments about the little one's presence, but it's clear they are not thrilled with it.

 

“Robert—”

 

“He's a babe, he'll be no bother,” he says, anticipating the complaints. “The Queen needs time to attend to her duties in peace.”

 

He sits and immediately the tap, tap, tap of wood against wood fill the room as Jon entertains himself with his toys. Robert's honest enough to admit a part of him’s done it to see his Council’s reaction, measure their attitude towards Jon, out of spite too; the other part of him simply doesn't want to part with the boy after spending two full days with him.

 

“Repairs around the Red Keep are finally done,” says Old Jon. “There wasn't much damage done to the masonry, but tearing down, uh – the Targaryen memorabilia to replace it with the Baratheon sigil—”

 

“What about the Stark sigil?”

 

There's an awkward pause; Robert leans back on his padded chair, one hand grabbing onto Jon while he rests his chin on the other. He waits.

 

“We could order the workmen to… add it to Her Grace's chambers.”

 

“I want her sigil next to mine.”

 

Old Jon clenches his jaw, taking a deep breath before replying, “In her chambers?”

 

“Next to every stag around the castle.”

 

Uncle Lomas shifts a little in his seat, shuffles the parchments in front of him before clearing his throat. “That… Your Grace, that will cost more than what we estimated – there's not enough gold as it is for all the repairs needed in the city.”

 

Or the rest of the realm, too. The Riverlands, more specifically. Robert had taken lands and gold from the Loyalists and rewarded those who'd fought by his side. He'd done what he could within his means to ease the burden of monetary costs for Lord Tully and his bannermen, to mend the ravaged land that took the brunt of the battles fought. It’s been hard, harder still without having to ask Tywin Lannister for monetary help; Lyanna had advised him not to, just yet, correctly since the rejection of Lady Cersei still rung loud between them, if unsaid.

 

Jon coos and babbles softly as her knocks his toys against each other, unbothered by the proceedingS around him.

 

“Where are the Targaryen jewels?” Robert asks, suddenly, blue eyes locked on the wooden toys once more; his hands twitch. “The ones found here and at Dragonstone?”

 

The pause this time is longer, more strained.

 

Lord Varys shifts and replies in the end. “It’s all stored away in a trunk, my King. The trunk was placed in the deepest dungeon.”

 

His fingers drum an uneven rhythm against the table – his mind struggles to focus one the matter at hand and not on what transpired in this very room only two days prior, or the dreams that have given him no rest in the past couple of weeks.

 

“Sell them,” says Robert, his tone brooking no argument. “That ought to yield enough gold to cover any additional expenses for the foreseeable future.”

 

The Grandmaester sputters. “Sell them? We can't sell them! Those are priceless relics—”

 

“ _Those_ are your answer to the lack of gold.” Fingers drum, drum, drum against the table. “I'm sure someone in Essos might be interested in buying them. Interested enough that you might get a good deal out of them.”

 

Uncle Lomas nods resolutely, but before he can utter another word, Varys the Spider, talks.

 

“I can see to that, if His Grace would let me.”

 

“You can _help_ Lord Estermont see to that.”

 

Varys inclines his head, showing his agreement, and Robert considers the matter done.

 

“That being said, arrange for the workmen to add the Stark sigil, I want it to be done before the ball is to begin.”

 

Old Jon frowns, shifts to face him more comfortably. “A moon’s turn. There won’t be enough time—”

 

“Then _make_ time.”

 

The tense silence that falls over them lasts briefly, but it’s enough for him to know _no one_ —no one who mattered in this chamber one way or another—is happy with his current statements, but what can they say? _What can they do?_ Robert flexes his hand over the table, once, twice, drums his fingers over it again, and waits. Old Jon coughs loudly before picking up what he can only assume are important documents.

 

“Lord Tully sends his gratitude for the gold given to him,” he says, moving the discussion along, “but asks if we can spare the extra men to help him keep order in the Riverlands.”

 

Tywin hums, leaning back into his chair a little, looking as unimpressed as ever. “He thinks the extra men will keep the people safe?”

 

“Saf _er_ ,” replies Old Jon with a frown. “I’m certain he expects no miracles.”

 

Jon coos, knocking over some toys and giggling, before turning to flash him a smile, his grey eyes sparkling with joy.

 

“Can we spare the men?” Robert asks, not taking his eyes off the boy.

 

“A hundred, perhaps, but not any more before the ball, and even then I'd rather we hold it back until after the event.”

 

“Then we wait till the celebrations are over,” he declares, rapping his knuckles over the table. “I’ll ask Lord Stark if he can spare a hundred more, once he arrives.”

 

Uncle Lomas rubs his chin, before grinning and slamming his hands on the table. “I’ll send word to Greenstone! I’m certain Eldon would not mind sparing the men to help, Your Grace.”

 

Robert cracks a little smile and inclines his head.

 

Old Jon sighs, rubbing a hand down his wrinkled face, but he looks much more relaxed. “I’ll send word to the Eyrie, have Lord Royce prepare a small garrison to assist in the Riverlands.”

 

He’s no time to react to that as Stannis sends him a fierce glare then, as he straightens up and says, “I’ll send word to Ser Harbert, tell him to arrange for our bannermen to spare the men as well.”

 

It’s all he can do not to glare back, not to snap, though Robert wishes it terribly. “Thank you, brother.”

 

It rankles him, this attitude of Stannis’, his insistence of offense when Robert had given him Dragonstone over Storm’s End – did the fool not know what he’s done, what it means? _I’ve made him my heir until Lyanna bears me a son, how can he begrudge me that?_ He’s trusted him with the royal fleet, trusted his abilities to turn it into something much more greater than what the Targaryens possessed. _How dare he act as if I’ve offended him?_ He’ll claim no innocence on this ongoing friction between them, he’s done his fair share to provoke Stannis’ displeasure throughout the years, but seven hells, his brother makes it harder to ease the strain when he takes insult in what is meant as an honor. He wants Storm’s End, Robert understands that, but he’s already given it to Renly; he can always give him lands an a bigger keep of his own, that should suffice.

 

When he turns his attention back to the meeting, Old Jon is scribbling notes on his parchment while his namesake tries to grab for the quill. It is a funny sight, especially when the Lord of the Eyrie tries to be stern as he tells the babe not to grab his pen. Robert lifts his gaze in time to catch the rest of the men’s reaction; he ignores Uncle Lomas and Ser Barristan and the old Maester, focuses on Varys and Tywin, notices the speculative stares they bestow upon the babe before they smooth out their expression. Varys turns a placid smile at him, while Tywin keeps his stony façade.

 

“Lord Lannister!” Uncle Loman speaks up, aiming a sharper grin at the man. “Won’t you aid the Riverlands with men?”

 

“It would be a splendid idea,” agrees Old Jon, something akin to humor shining in his eyes. “It would help ensure to keep your borders secure, after all.”

 

The muscles of his neck spasm, Tywin clenches his jaw briefly before inclining his head “I will, of course, aid Lord Tully to the best of my capacity.”

 

“Excellent,” Robert says, tapping the tabletop. “Now, what else must be discussed?”

 

Ser Barristan takes the floor then, to keep them up to date with the training he’s overseeing along with the new master-at-arms, Ser Herbert Bolling, the schedule of the Kingsguard for this upcoming weeks and how he’s planning on doubling the patrols for the duration of the celebrations. As the old knight rambles on, even knowing it to be important, Robert lets his mind wander, thinks Old Jon will mostly likely want to revise every single thing of this meeting with him in private later. He’ll be brought up to date on this then, he reckons.

 

Once that's over, the meeting is nearly done and he can excuse himself from it, Robert is eager to go and with Jon dozing off in his arms, he has the perfect excuse.

 

He thinks.

 

“Your Grace.” Until Varys opens his mouth. “I have reports of the last Targaryens, if it would please you to hear them.”

 

Uncle Lomas scoffs in disdain, while Jon frowns deeply; it is the former who speaks to shoot down whatever it is might be said.

 

“And what do your little spies say now, Lord Varys? Where are they now?”

 

“Braavos, my lord.”

 

“Braavos!” Uncle Lomas slaps his thigh. “How can that be? Not long ago you reported they were in Lys, and before that in Volantis. Before that, it was Pentos or Tyrosh! How are we to be sure your spies have it right this time?”

 

Varys seems completely unperturbed about the outburst. “It is for certain now, I assure you.”

 

His gaze narrows in on Varys, piercing, and the man stares right back unflinchingly. Robert feels the fury coil in his guts, growing wild and dangerous; his fingers drum, drum, drum a sharp rhythm on the table while the hand holding Jon twitches spasmodically. A part of him wants to ask, wants to _know_ – keep track of his enemies but then. _Children,_ comes a whisper from the back of his mind, _they’re innocent children._ It rankles because Robert has _learned_ there is no such thing as an innocent Targaryen. _Dragonspawn,_ he thinks, _monsters, the lot of them._ Tragedies and sorrow and _betrayal_ is all they’ve given his family for years, ever since Aegon and Orys. Near on three hundred years, Robert will no longer have any of it.

 

_I’ll rid the world of every single—_

 

“It matters not, Lord Varys, where they are,” says Old Jon, tone brooking no argument. “We’ll not send anyone after children.”

 

Robert takes deep measured breaths, wills his anger to cool down, and then stands up abruptly enough to startle the babe sleeping in his arms.

 

“Your Grace?”

 

“We’ll not send anyone after children,” he parrots Jon’s words, and if they taste like ashes in his mouth, well, there’s no need to acknowledge it now, is there? “My lords, I believe there’s nothing left to discuss. Have a nice day.”

 

With not another word, he leaves.

 

******

 

King’s Landing – what a spectacular view it presents from Blackwater Bay, imposing and majestic, yet all Ned sees, every time he blinks, are the scattered corpses of its citizens as he rushed his horse towards the Red Keep. The blood of men, women, and children alike painting the streets. The smoke rising from the ravaged edifices; the stench of death permeating the air. All the chaos and suffering Tywin Lannister unleashed upon the defenseless just because he could; of all of it, it’s the smell that haunts him the most, that won't leave him, even after a year has passed. And he's starting to think it never will.

 

“A splendid view, is it not, my lord?”

 

The thoughtless reply is on the verge of being spoken when he turns, gazes at his young bride and the excited babe in her arms, at her tentative smile, and stops. Takes a moment to think his words through, before meeting her blue eyes and nodding slowly, mustering a smile of his own.

 

“It is, my lady.”

 

She needs not know the true nature of his thoughts, dark and macabre as they are. Catelyn has given him only joys, a son and lovely smiles and warm embraces since they’d met at the doors of the Red Keep for Robert’s coronation and wedding to Lyanna. It would not be fair if he were to return gloom and thoughts of tragedies. Her smile relaxes, she looks truly at ease now. Ned places a gentle hand on the small of her back and coaxes her closer, until they’re very nearly embracing.

 

“May I ask…?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Would you tell me about Her Grace? What is she like?”

 

For long second, Ned blinks uncomprehending what is being asked of him. _Her Grace?_ He cannot grasp who it is his lady wife speaks of, until his prolonged silence prompts her to ramble on. And he understands.

 

“When we met for her wedding she seemed so… like _you_ , my lord. But, by the tone of her letters, I must admit I might’ve been mistaken.”

 

 _Lyanna,_ he thinks, _she speaks of Lyanna._ And of course she does. Her Grace; who else could it be? His little sister married a king, _the King_ , against all odds and much protest, she is the only one who carries such title.

 

“Like me?” He seeks clarification, though has a good idea of what that might mean.

 

“Quiet, solemn…” Her lips curl higher and humor glints in her eyes. _“Brooding.”_

 

The chuckle stumbles past his lips before he can stop it, pleased that Catelyn feels comfortable enough with him to tease. Even if her misinterpretation of Lyanna had been due to his little sister trying to deal with the consequences of her actions, and failing to accomplish that.

 

Ned hopes she's better now, as her letter seemed to imply.

 

“Well,” he says, “Lyanna can be broody as well, but most of the time, she is much like… much like Brandon is. _Was_.”

 

Reckless and wild, as quick to rage as she is to smile; though Lyanna lacked much of their brother's responsibility, not that Ned blames her, as she was only a child when— _and now she's Queen of the Seven Kingdoms._

 

“She likes dancing, tales of valiant knights and sweet songs—” _and horses and riding through the Wolfswood for hours on end and swordplay and—_ He smiles at his lady wife reassuringly. “She's willful, yes, yet very easy to love. As are you, my lady.”

 

When her cheeks tint red, as they’ve been doing frequently as of late, Ned must look away lest his own face betray his embarrassment. It’s only – he’s not used to this, this strange courtship he’s having with his wife; not that he is used to any other kind of courtship, Ned is aware of his shortcomings but… Every time he thinks of courting his lady wife, he cannot help thinking he ought to have done this the right order. Courtship first, wedding later. _That’d have been Brandon,_ he thinks, all sense of good humor leaving him in a rush, as it always does when he thinks of his late brother.

 

It’s not something he can stop thinking about. His life and how he’d come into it; the keep and wife and child. Hearing the words _‘Lord Stark’_ at every corner, at every moment; more than once, Ned failed to reply, fully expecting to hear his lord father, _or Brandon, it was never meant for me_ —he shakes his head gently, dispelling his gloom thoughts.

 

_I have to stop doing that._

 

“My lord?”

 

Her soft call and the gentle pressure of her hand on his arm snaps his attention back effectively, more than anything else would. A part of him loathes himself for allowing her to have this much control over him, loathes that he enjoys her attentions so. Catelyn smiles at him, wider, rosy cheeks enticing enough that he lifts a hand to stroke it; she leans into his touch and the action pleases him tremendously.

 

“The captain said we still have some time before reaching the docks,” he barely recognizes his voice as the words spill past his lips; though he does recognize the heat surging in her blue eyes before her pupils dilate. “May I…?”

 

“Yes,” comes her breathless response.

 

It’s all Ned can do to even out his pace as he leads them to his cabin, really. Though he clearly feels at a loss, once the doors closes behind them. His lady wife, and he’s only laid with her a handful of times since their bedding, all of which had been aided in part by a bit too much ale. But they’ve not drank so much as a sip of wine today since breaking their fast and _this_ – this heat building, this is something Ned relished.

 

With a deep breath he takes her hand, seeking permission, a breathless gasp is his response. Ned presses his lips to her palm to muffle the groan that tumbles out of him, then pulls her into a kiss; there’s no stopping the moan that echoes around them, his or hers, it’s hard to tell and he’s past the time for caring. Clumsily, the move towards his bed, hands tugging at laces in search of skin. Her hands have an easier time of it, his doublet is quickly pushed off his shoulders and his tunic follows soon enough.

 

Feverish in his desire, Ned tries to rid her of her own gown so he may enjoy the feels of her smooth skin, but has trouble upon finding it laced at her back. With a groan he deepen their kiss, tangles one hand into her hair and for a moment ceases in his endeavor to divest her of her clothing. _Gods_ but he loves her hair, how it feels to the touch, how it fell over her shoulders as she— _that one time_. Ned won’t say it yet, but he’s certain he loves everything about his lady wife – his hands go back to wrestling with the laces.

 

“Eddard…”

 

 _Ned,_ he wishes to correct her, _call me Ned._ Instead he groans in something akin to protest when Catelyn pushes him back, then again but in longing when, boldly, she goes to hike up her skirts. She won’t voice her desires, but he’s learned to read her cues. He kisses her again and laids her back on the bed, part of him lamenting the lost chance to have her bare underneath him as he vaguely remembers the words Lord Destin had said during their bedding, wanting to see her breasts bounce free of its constraints, yet the rest of him is too far gone in the moment to care.

 

“Catelyn…”

 

The wail comes as a shock, ripping through the haze and effectively sweeping aside the moment. _Robb,_ he thinks, rolls off his lady wife and watches her hasten to right her gown and rush out of his cabin. Leaving him behind with nary a glance. Can't begrudge her or their son, for they still are not used to be apart for long periods of times. _This journey has not been easy on Robb._ The little one had not taken easily to the sea, as his mother had hoped.

 

After the wails stop and Ned has redressed himself, he goes on search of the captain, to ask about their arrival, when he notices they're almost ready to dock. Looking over the rail, he notices a great many things. Mostly ghosts of the past, but also that the city looks better than the last time he's been there, its people look lively if cautious of the guards patrolling the streets. Too many guards, he notes with a frown, until he stumbles upon a familiar and welcome face.

 

_“NED!”_

 

There he stands, his younger brother, waving his arms enthusiastically at him.

 

That pulls a grin out of him, glad to note Benjen looks happy, no lurking discontent in sight, not as there'd been the last time they saw each other. When he'd grumbled about the wedding, about Robert and Rhaegar, argued till he was red in the face that Lyanna and Jon should go back to Winterfell.

 

_“Nothing good’s ever happened to a Stark here in the south!”_

 

It had been a harsh thing to say, especially in front of Catelyn, who already harbored doubts about their marriage, even if she'd opted not to voice them. Benjen had looked properly chagrined once he realized the damage his outburst had done, apologized repeatedly, then hunched over so suddenly Ned had to rush to his side, thinking he'd collapse.

 

But his brother hadn't, he simply said, _“We already lost Father and Brandon, I don't want to lose Lya as well.”_

 

A heartbreaking reminder.

 

As soon as the plank touches ground, Benjen sprints forth, rushing into his arms and laughing as if he were a little boy and not nearly a man grown. He chooses not to comment on it, as he feels as inclined to shed the mantle of Lord Stark more often than he cares to admit.

 

“Ned!” Benjen grins as he pulls back. “Or is it Lord Stark now?”

 

The grin holds, but the pain that flashes through his blue-grey eyes cannot be ignored. Ned tries, he _tries_ his godsdamned best and smiles back, pushing all memories of Father and Brandon to the very back of his mind. They have to move aside to let his men begin carrying out the several trunks they’ve brought, filled with clothes to last them the moon’s turn they’ll stay and presents for the King and Queen. And Jon.

 

“Ned will do,” he says, grabs his brother by the shoulders to look at him properly. “You’ve grown, Ben.”

 

“I’m five-and-ten, of course, I’ve grown!” Benjen frowns at him, crosses his arms and looks around the ship. “I’m taller than Lya, though she likes to remind me and everyone around that she’s older by two years.”

 

“I’m sure she means no harm.”

 

In a truly stellar moment of maturity, he sticks his tongue out at him; his sour humor melts immediately once his eyes settle on something over his shoulder. Or someone.

 

“Lady Catelyn! And my nephew!”

 

Ned smiles once again, follows Benjen at a more sedate pace and comes to stand by his wife’s side. They exchange a brief but heated glance, the memory of what they’d nearly done still vivid in their minds, and it is with conscious effort that they turn to Benjen who seems quite content making funny faces at Robb.

 

“Oh, I didn’t know you were good with children, Lord Benjen,” says Catelyn, smiling gently at him as they all bask in Robb's happy laughter.

 

Benjen smiles ruefully. “I'm not a lord.” He tickles Robb's belly one last time before taking a step back, and they all begin descending from the ship, towards the carriage waiting for them. “And I have had a plenty of experience with Jon.”

 

The carts are loaded with everything they've brought, their men sit their horses ready to part, the City Watch as well. Ned forgoes his own mount in favor of riding the carriage with his lady wife; he helps get into it, then follows, and it's not shocked at all when Benjen climbs in after them.

 

The silence stretches until the sounds of the city filter through the small windows, loud enough for them to speak with a measure of privacy.

 

Still, Benjen rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. “I'm glad you arrived. This past few months have been… _odd._ ”

 

Dread coils in his gut, though Ned tries to settle it. Benjen does not look angry or worried, simply confused and exhausted. He hums, scratching his chin, and the gesture draws attention to the first hints of a beard in his little brother.

 

“How odd?”

 

“Well…” Benjen rubs the back of his neck, blushing faintly and that – that is not the reaction he expected. “You know I never…. This marriage of Lya and…”

 

Yes, Benjen had not being shy about making his displeasure known, both to him and Robert. He'd cared not a whit about the golden crown sitting on his dear friend's head. Had boldly told him he better behave with their sister _or else_. Lyanna had had to intervene then, fearing Robert would react badly she'd rushed to placate their little brother.

 

But _Robert_ – Robert had not reacted at all to his threats.

 

“What of it? You know it was her decision, in the end. And you know Lya…”

 

There's little anyone could've done to change her mind.

 

His little brother frowns, but nods. “It’s not that. I mean, at first… she wasn’t exactly happy, spent most of her days locked up in her chambers, caring for Jon. I think Robert was much the same.”

 

“You think?”

 

“It’s not like he spent time with me,” he says, shrugging. “I wouldn’t know. Though…”

 

“Yes?”

 

“It’s not like I stuck around when he came looking for Lya.” His disapproval must show if Benjen is quick to reassure him. “She asked me to leave! Hells, Ned, I wouldn’t have left her alone with him if she hadn’t wanted me to.”

 

Because she shifts suddenly next to him, Ned turns to Catelyn, finding her frowning as her blue eyes wander about the carriage. So he reaches out to grab her hand, smiling encouragingly at her. “Yes, my lady?”

 

Catelyn blinks in surprise, but she holds his gaze despite the alluring blush rapidly climbing up her neck. “Oh, nothing, I just…”

 

“Speak, Lady Catelyn, you’re among friends.”

 

Benjen means well, means to ease, but such a boy he is, still. _Family,_ Ned wants to snap, to correct him as Father would have. She is among _family_. Instead he frowns at him, debates a bit too long before he realizes he should have corrected him, as Catelyn pulls her hand away, a flash of hurt passing by before her expression settles on politeness.

 

“I am confused, my lord, for I do not understand why you speak as if His Grace would harm the Queen.” She draws her arms around Robb, pulls him closer, and keeps a steady gaze on Benjen. “I might not know him well, my lord,” she tells him, “but His Grace looked like he loved the Queen very much when they wed.”

 

Benjen scoffs. “Clearly not enough to keep away from his whores,” he says, not low enough to avoid being heard.

 

“Benjen!” The shock is clear and a little satisfying in knowing his lord’s voice works on him as well as it does on his bannermen. “Mind your tongue, he is your king.”

 

“He’s making Lya sad!” His little brother takes a deep breath to calm himself, though the frown doesn’t leave him. “He’s making her sad…”

 

“Lyanna said—”

 

“You’re not here, _Lord Stark,_ you’ve not seen it.”

 

He’s nothing to say to that, it is the truth. Ned allows the rocking of the carriage to soothe his anger, reasoning that there is no room for it in this argument. He lets the silence prolong, gathers his thoughts, casts his mind far back to the only time Lyanna allowed him to speak up about her decision. Shortly after it was decided they would ride to the nearest port and sail to King’s Landing as soon as she was better.

 

 _“Let me speak to Robert, I’ll… I’ll convince him. It is for the best if you come North with me, you and your babe,”_ he’d pleaded with her. _“Lya, I’ll claim him as my own, if I must. No one will—”_

 

 _“I’ll go to King’s Landing, with Robert, then to Storm’s End,”_ she’s said, softly, looking at the babe he’d placed in her arms, intently. _“I’ll wed him, as Father promised. And he’ll keep me and my babe safe. We’ll be safe.”_

 

He’d not liked that answer, but then, Ned is not so dishonest to believe he’d done it simply out of concern for his little sister. While true, he’d also been feeling a selfish need to gather his family and keep them forever within the safe walls of Winterfell.

 

So, a different approach was in order. _“What of your concerns? Lya, what of… your doubts?”_

 

Jaw clenching, Lyanna had not liked that. _“Do you still believe him to be a good man, Ned?”_

 

_“Yes.”_

 

_“Then believe I will be fine. That he’ll treat me well.”_

 

Whatever it is made him say the next words, he’s yet to know, even to this day, more than a year later. But even now, Ned still regrets them:

 

_“Will he make you happy, though?”_

 

As low a blow as Benjen thoughtless words shouted in a moment of anger. Ned had not had a chance to take them back, for Robert had appeared then, and requested to have a private word with his sister. _After,_ it had been days of preparation to begin moving and… after that, things spiralled out of control.

 

His dearest friend gained a golden crown and the responsibility of seven kingdoms, claimed the bride of his choice and, in the process, painted a big red mark on backs of both Lyanna and Jon.

 

“You said something’s been odd, Benjen.” Ned blinks, turns his focus on his brother in an attempt to dispel his thoughts. “What is that?”

 

Again he frowns, yet strangely enough, there’s no lurking anger in his expression, which does nothing but confuse Ned tremendously.

 

“…he’s treated her well. Despite—” A vague hand gesture, but having grown beside Robert, Ned needs little else to understand. “And I thought, I truly thought Lyanna didn’t care for… You know it took them nearly six turns of the moon to conceive a child.”

 

He pushes back the urge to correct him, remind him it is not just a lord he’s referring to, but the King. With the same vehemence, he tries to keep his shock hidden. “Did he not…?” Ned asked, casting a quick glance at his lady wife.

 

Catelyn must’ve recognized his need to believe he and Benjen have the privacy needed for this kind of conversation, as she keeps her whole focus on the squirming babe in her arms.

 

“Twice a month, as per the maester’s words,” Benjen replies, a grimace twisting his face and right there, he looks like his baby brother as he’d known him in Winterfell. “But then…”

 

The blush comes back, and this time, he does look mildly angry and very much disgusted.

 

“Benjen?”

 

“How does it happen? How do people go from barely looking at one another to spending every night together for three moon’s turns?” He rubs his face, covering his eyes, Benjen whines like a child in the middle of a tantrum. “And then, suddenly, stop again?”

 

Ned can’t believe this. No, certainly, Robert wouldn’t—

 

“Her Grace grew fond of King Robert, then?”

 

A naive thought, _perhaps,_ but then how is he to know? Benjen is right, he’d not been in King’s Landing to witness any of Lyanna and Robert’s interactions. He can’t dismiss a possibility simply because of past words, of assumptions that those words hold true even now. Robert’s always been charming, has always know his way with ladies, highborn and baseborn alike, and in such close proximity… It’s likely Lyanna has grown fond of him.

 

“I understand – they _need_ heirs.” Benjen shakes his head vigorously. “But this, they've begun _again_ … she’s already with child! Shouldn’t they stop?”

 

A part of Ned is grateful to have redirected the conversation away from a sensitive topic, but _this_ – this almost makes him wish to have braved the memories.

 

“Again…?”

 

The there’s the fact of how to reply. Again, it’s not something Ned knows, it’s not… as if he beds his wife that often, certainly never during her pregnancy as he’d been off fighting a war. Catelyn hums and looks down, her cheeks ablaze as she tries to hide her smile nuzzling their son’s head.

 

“If the Queen demands it,” she says, “I doubt the King will refuse.”

 

The carriage stops and soon after, Jory opens its door, bowing his head before stepping aside. And here they are, the Red Keep, just as he remembers it. The time to converse has come to an end, and Benjen is quick to rearrange his expression into one of joy.

 

“Brother,” he says, as they all step out of the carriage, and with a broad motion of his arm, “welcome to King Robert’s court.”


	5. a family reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna slams into him much as she used to do when they were children, when he returned to Winterfell for a time. Arms around his waist and squeezing him tight, only now her head reached just below his shoulders as opposed to below his chest.

Robert walks briskly through the hallways of the Maidenvault, his steward, Addam, hurrying after him at a trot for he would not be able to keep up otherwise. In his arms, Jon sits quietly, perhaps sensing his mood, he contents himself by occasionally patting the shoulder he leans on or tugging at his hair with the hand that’s not holding his toy.

 

Anger boils beneath his skin in a way it hasn't for a long time now, in a way only beating up something, _or someone,_ will appease. He knows. He's certain. But Robert cannot exactly drop by the training yard now, not when he's taken it upon himself to care for Jon on this day. He could, of course, leave him with his nurse, or drop him by Lyanna's solar, but he fears what he'll do if he comes face to face with the Kingslayer, fears what memories will surface if he sees the kid's face.

 

He's no intention to antagonize Lyanna today, even less so, he's no desire to explain to Tywin Lannister why his golden son would be returned to him battered and maimed.

 

No, better to blow off some steam by barking orders and making choices about the _remodeling._

 

So he stops before a suit of armor and waits for his steward to catch up. “This,” he says, eyes tracing the three-headed dragon engraved in the breastplate, “will go.” And because he can't reign in the petty urge, Robert kicks it, knocking it down.

 

The armor makes a thunderous clanging noise as it hits the cobblestone, dismantling, pieces scattering down the hall.

 

Jon startles and looks at the mess, curious, before turning back to look at him.

 

Addam stutters, fidgeting nervously by his side but nods rapidly once Robert turns his cold stare on him. “Of– of course, Your Grace, I shall arrange it at once.”

 

“All of it, _all of them,_ I was clear when I said I'd have no remembrance of the Targaryen dynasty now.” He strides to the next suit of armor, and repeats much the same motion; the kick carries more strength than the last. Such a petty action but he's beyond caring. Jon follows the path the pieces scatter with his eyes, staring intently. “Get rid of everything, Addam, _everything,_ before the ball is to begin.”

 

It's not enough. Would if he could, Robert would smash every suit of armor bearing the Targaryen’s sigil to scrap metal with his own bare hands, beat it until his rage melted away. But.

 

_But._

 

 _Who’d be willing agree to a serious match with their king,_ he wonders, reconsidering his earlier decision to skip the training yard, who would not hesitate to cross swords with him, give it his all? He scowls, because the answer is clear and not the one he likes. _Hunting, then,_ he decides, _I'll go hunting. Perhaps a boar will put up a good challenge._

 

Addam clears his throat. “Um… Your Grace, would – would that be all?”

 

“Prepare my horse, and a small retinue, I’m going hunting,” he replies. “And then you can go help my queen with whatever needs to be done still for the ball.”

 

Before another word can be uttered, they're interrupted by a sharp voice, startling but delivering much appreciated news.

 

“There will be no hunting now, Robert, not when you have ordered everyone to inform you of Lord Stark’s arrival so you may greet him personally.”

 

It takes him all but a second to comprehend those words, then, Robert grins.

 

Finally, some good news.

 

******

 

Robert’s page greets them.

 

A slip of a boy, can’t be older than eight from the looks of it. But he stands proud and happy to be there to fulfill such an important role. Around him stand several whitecloaks, some of which Ned can recognize, if scarcely, and others who are complete strangers. A few steps behind, walking briskly towards the entourage is—

 

Ned smiles, steps forward to meet the smiling man with a warm embrace. “Jon!”

 

“Ned!”

 

Jon laughs as they embrace, a gesture Ned appreciates, feeling the affection wash over him. His foster father, the man who'd been more a father than the man who sired him, at least that's how he'd felt at times, however guiltily. Jon exudes the same warmth he remembers from his youth, and he is happy to note this accursed city had not changed him yet. Hopes fervently that the same holds for Robert.

 

“Ned– forgive me, _Lord Stark,_ it is good to see you well.” He moves onto Catelyn, his greeting turns gentle, as he places a kiss to her hand and ruffles Robb's hair fondly. “Lady Stark, it's good to see you well. And of course, Lord Robb as well.”

 

“And you, Lord Arryn.”

 

His foster father goes to speak once more, when he notices Robert’s page shift anxiously behind him. “Will, what is it?” He asks, smiling fondly at the boy, much like he used to do with him and Robert.

 

“M’lord,” says Will, bowing hastily and clumsily. “His Grace requested Lord Stark be taken to his chambers as soon as he arrived, m’lord, so he may settle and rest. Her Grace said to also bring him and his family to her solar as soon as possible. I– I am to escort them, m’lord.”

 

Ned blinks in mild surprise, having expected Robert to demand at least he be escorted to his solar immediately. _Perhaps he’s granting Lyanna the chance to see us first._ But why would he not join them? He thinks of Benjen’s words, and how those make it seem as if there is no problem at all with that relationship. _Perhaps he's just too busy._

 

“Two different instructions, Will. What can be done about it?”

 

“I follow His Grace's orders.”

 

Jon smiles and nods. “Then don't let me keep you from your duty.”

 

The boy bows and begins indicating his soldiers where they should go. “M’lord Stark, please, this way. His Grace has set up apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast for you and your family, your household has been given apartments in the Maidenvault.”

 

Before they can get too far, Jon calls for the boy. “Will, where is the king?”

 

“The Maidenvault, m’lord.”

 

With a nod, his foster father-turned-brother walks away. Ned gives Benjen a curious look but his brother simply shrugs as they follow Will across the courtyards. As they near Maegor’s Holdfast, the boy rushes up to one of the guards, speaking quickly, the man turns and rushes inside and when Will returns to their side, he grins.

 

“I've sent word to Her Grace, so she knows you’re here,” he says, making vague motions with his hand. “I'll escort you to your chambers and then I must go inform King Robert you are settled.”

 

There’s no apparent need, but his hand moves on its own. Ned’s vaguely aware of placing it gently on Catelyn’s back, but he’s certainly conscious of her shining eyes as she turns to smile at him.

 

Suddenly, he feels short of breath.

 

As they walk the hallways, climbing stairs and rounding bends, Will chatters excitedly, with exaggerated gestures before halting suddenly and sparing them a sheepish glance, and then he proceeds in a more calm tone. He tells them about how Lyanna had seen to the preparations of their quarters herself, to the littlest detail, how excited Robert is about seeing them. Soon enough, they're ushered inside a big bedchamber, spacious and bright, overlooking the bay, with a smaller one right next to them, connected by a side door, for Robb, clearly, if the small crib is anything to go by.

 

Catelyn gasps and smiles and it’s clear she loves everything about it, so Ned really can’t find anything to dislike. Even the unbearable heat, beating him constantly since they’d begun to near the bay, is naught but a minor discomfort.

 

Robb begins to get fuzzy again, pulling at his clothes, and after Catelyn excuses herself to tend to their son, Ned turns to face Will, voicing the one question that’s been burning his tongue since the end of their short tour. “One chamber?”

 

The boy looks at him askance. “His Grace thought you'd like to share your bedchamber with your lady wife, too.”

 

Benjen grimaces, while he can simply try to suppress his shock. _Too?_

 

But no more words are exchanged, as the doors are opened suddenly and violently and Ned is bracing himself for impact.

 

Lyanna slams into him much as she used to do when they were children, when he returned to Winterfell for a time. Arms around his waist and squeezing him tight, only now her head reached just below his shoulders as opposed to below his chest. He can no longer lift her up in his arms, it would not be appropriate; even this effusiveness from her part is a breach in the usual protocol, yet his men will not judge and by the way Will grins, neither will he.

 

But his sister shakes in his arms now, he hears a choked sob, and Ned rightfully forgets all about protocol as he bends his knees, wraps his arms tightly around her waist and lifts her off her feet. _Oh, little sister,_ he thinks, eyes squeezing shut as he feels her hands twist the fabric of his doublet, _don’t cry._ Lyanna shifts her hold so her arms circle his neck, _and there,_ her quiet and muffled sobs rip through his tattered heart.

 

The sound of a door closing firmly is what breaks through the moment.

 

Ned opens his eyes to meet Benjen’s blue-grey gaze, clouded with worry and sorrow, his hold on Lyanna tightens when he feels her tense, and after a swift survey of the bedchambers to make sure it is only the family which remained, slowly, he relaxes, and lets his sister go.

 

Lyanna keeps her gaze down, uses the sleeves of her gown to wipe away the remains of her tears before looking up and giving him a poor attempt at a smile. “Ned…” Her voice trembles and she must clear her throat a few times, and then attempt again. “Welcome to King’s Landing!”

 

An act, her cheerfulness, but he won’t press for what made her crumble if she won’t share her burdens with him freely. So Ned smiles back, bows, and only chuckles in response to her protests when he’s about to kneel.

 

“It is what I must do, Your Grace,” he says, then, belatedly, perhaps too much, he takes notice of the visible bump in her stomach. His eyes widen, because how could he forget she was with child now, and not moderate the strength of his embrace? “Your…”

 

“I'm fine,” she interrupts, waving off his concerns. “I'm not a delicate flower, I won't break.”

 

“Still, Your Grace, I should've been…”

 

Benjen laughs from his place near the doors and Lyanna shoots him a glare before she turns her fierce look on him.

 

“I refuse to have you call me by that wretched title,” she states, firmly. “You’re my brother, call me by my name.”

 

“Lya.”

 

That makes her smile genuinely. “Better,” and she moves to embrace him one more time, now he returns the gesture gently. “I’ve missed you, big brother, very much.”

 

“And I you, little sister.”

 

One last squeeze and Lyanna steps back, her gaze travelling the room once. “Mother didn’t come?”

 

“No.”

 

“Oh…”

 

He reaches out, tapping her chin lightly. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, you know that.”

 

She takes a deep breath, and nods, and once more smiles at him as she turns to face the door connecting to what will be Robb’s chambers during their stay in King’s Landing. “And where is my good-sister and nephew?”

 

Her voice is, perhaps, overly loud, but effective. Catelyn steps back into their bedchambers with a smile on her face and a happy babe in her arms. Lyanna rushes to their side, and after refusing the deference befitting her station, she kisses Catelyn’s cheeks and then scoops Robb into her arms.

 

“Ooh, he’s grown so much since I saw him last!” She smiles at him, and Catelyn, before turning to kiss his son’s chubby cheeks. “You’ll be a big northman soon, eh?”

 

Robb coos, basking happily in the attention.

 

“Hopefully, not _too_ soon,” says Catelyn, walking to his side and accepting his outstretched hand with a wistful grin.

 

Benjen moves closer, just as Lyanna does with Robb, who squirms excited in his aunt’s arms. “He looks just like Catelyn, it’s amazing.”

 

“And a blessing,” adds his sister, tongue-in-cheek, “we know he’ll be very handsome, then.”

 

Ned sighs, already accustomed to endure his younger siblings relentless teasing; now they’ve just found a new subject at hand. And he accepts it gladly, basking in the feelings of nostalgia it all brings to him.

 

Catelyn, however, looks mystified; she squeezes his hand and looks at him mildly shocked, but he’s quick to smile, hoping that will reassure her.

 

The doors open with a loud bang, then, followed by a louder shout. “NED!”

 

*****

 

It might be that Robert's timing is perfect, or truly poor, however the emotional moment seems to vanish completely once his foster brother, _his king,_ walks into the bedchambers.

 

Exuberant and happy, Robert bounds to his side among laughter and sweeps him up into a tight embrace, short one-armed hug because there's a sudden whine and a small hand slapping his face, and he's stepping back with a grin aimed at the pouting boy perched on his other arm.

 

“Sorry, little one, I did not mean to squish you.”

 

_Jon._

 

The boy in Robert’s arms blinks, pout melting slowly as he grins back at the man, and then turns a curious gaze at him; curious and guarded, understandably, Ned thinks, as he does not know him. Jon had been barely two moons old when he saw him last. _And now he’s a big as Robb._ Ned jerks suddenly, startled, wincing as the pain bloom over his shoulder briefly. Robert slaps his back once more, before handing Jon over, making him flounder.

 

And there he stand, holding the nephew he’d wanted to claim as his own to spare his sister the shame and the stares and the worries. _The danger._ To spare his friend and new king of the _reminder._ Ned stands there holding a boy of one as if he’s never held a infant before, at arm’s length, struggling because Jon proves to like squirming as much as Robb does. It doesn’t occur to him that perhaps he ought to cradle the boy as he would do with his son, but the shock won’t let him think past the last time he’d seen him.

 

“That’s not how you hold a babe, my lord,” the reprimand, that can hardly be called such, as it’s spoken softly, comes from Catelyn, who blissfully hasn’t lost her smile. “It’s like this.”

 

She adjusts his grip properly, until he holds Jon close to his chest, and he knows this, _truly,_ but Ned is still reeling with a kind of shock that feels misplaced.

 

It’s then that he realizes, while he’d been lost in his own musing, Robert had greeted Catelyn already, and had moved to make funny faces at Robb, as he still does, who giggles loudly in Lyanna's arms.

 

Add then something shifts.

 

Robert tickles Robb's belly, but it's an absent-minded action, for his eyes seek Lyanna's, search her face, and then harden upon finding the evidence of her previous distress. His sister meets her husband's gaze steadily, her head tilts a fraction to the side, seeking his hand when he moves to wipe a remnant of the tears she'd shed before. His hand moves over her neck and shoulder and down her side, until it settles on her waist, thumb stroking the fabric over her belly. It's an innocent gesture, an acceptable touch, yet Lyanna shudders and breathes heavily now and Robert exhales loudly.

 

“Oh but he looks just like you, my lord…” Catelyn's voice cuts through his focus, and Ned turns to meet his wife's conflicted gaze. “It's… shocking.”

 

He struggles not to wince, knowing well what would've happened if Robert had given the command, if Lyanna had agreed. Upon arriving at Winterfell, he'd told Catelyn of his intentions, his plans, and how he'd wished to protect his sister by claiming her bastard as his own, to keep the rumors at bay. The boy looking every inch the Stark that no one would suspect. His lady wife had simply stared at him, for long seconds, before asking:

 

_“And what of me, my lord? What of… Would you have kept that secret from me as well?”_

 

Ned had said yes, without hesitation, and Catelyn had nodded and walked away. He'd not understood her reaction, not until his mother had had a word with him.

 

_“You were willing to dishonor yourself, dishonor Catelyn, by letting the realm believe you fathered a bastard.”_

 

_“To protect Lyanna.”_

 

_“By lying to your lady wife? Eddard, you cannot build a marriage on a lie.”_

 

He'd thought it– still thinks it the best option, the safest solution, to take Jon and keep him away from those who remain loyal to the Targaryen, from the danger of Robert's wrath, if it comes. _When it comes,_ he thinks guiltily. The boy would be safer in Winterfell, he's sure of it. Yet he sees his mistake, in regards to Catelyn. Admits where he went wrong, however cannot apologize because, he knows, should the opportunity present itself to go back and try once again, he would take it, the blame and the guilt and the boy and would not share it with anyone.

 

So, now, he says, “forgive me, my lady,” and hopes she understands.

 

Catelyn gives him a strained smile.

 

“And how's our babe doing in there?”

 

They look over to their king and queen, blink once before gasping in alarm. For Robert kneels before Lyanna now, hand still on her waist as he nuzzles her rounded belly, while Robb hangs precariously from the other. Bum in the air, their infant son is supported only by the hold Robert has on his clothes, nearly upside-down and enjoying it if his giggles say anything. Lyanna tries to grab him back, but is obstructed by her husband.

 

Catelyn rushes to their side to take back their son.

 

“I'm sorry, Catelyn,” Lyanna says, before turning to frown at Robert, “you big idi— ah!” She yelps, startling, just as Robert reels back, removing his hand from her as if burned. “That…”

 

“Has– Has this happened…?”

 

“No.”

 

“So, this is…?”

 

“Yes!” Lyanna grabs his hands and places them back on her belly. “There, I— oh!”

 

Catelyn meets his worried gaze as he moves cautiously towards the pair.

 

“What's wrong?” But it's Benjen who demands answers.

 

Lyanna looks up at them, something like wonder shining in her eyes. “The babe– ow! That—!”

 

Catelyn gasps and smiles, but neither he nor his brother understand, until Robert burst into laughter.

 

“That's my son kicking!” He stands and pulls Lyanna into an embrace, giving her a short kiss. “That's our son kicking,” he says softly.

 

His sister smiles back. “Our son…” Again, she startles and drops her gaze to her belly, full of wonder. “He's… a strong one.”

 

And then her eyes lift and focus on Jon, and her smile is gone.

 

“Is this the first time the babe’s kicked?” Catelyn ask, shifting Robb in her arms to settle him at her hip.

 

“Yes, it's—” Lyanna blinks, looks at Catelyn, then at Robert who's dropped to him knees again, hugging her waist as he talks softly, ear pressed firmly against the rounded stomach, and back up at her good-sister. “It's the first time.”

 

“Oh, how wonderful!”

 

Ned frowns, sees that no one else seems to notice Lyanna’s shifting mood, not even Benjen who’s come to take Jon from his arms so he can explain what is happening, making the boy squirm excitedly. Ned frowns and catches his sister’s eyes, before she looks away.

 

“Yes… wonderful…”

 

******

 

Things _change_ after that first kick from the babe.

 

 _Our son,_ she thinks, almost in a daze. For hours and days after the event, through the last preparations for the ball, and afternoons spent with Catelyn talking, watching their boys get to know each other, moments alone with Ned and Benjen. _Our son, Robert's son._ Lyanna spends days and nights distracted and being easily startled, and soon her behavior begins to draw attention. Ser Jaime asks once, but after she simply points at her belly in response, he inquires no further. Benjen is more insistent, as the days go by, but she’s long ago learned how to divert his attention, and a boy as determined to be the best swordsman there is as he, she only needs to have Ser Barristan mention extended lessons and he’s off her case.

 

It is a testament to how busy and stressed Robert's been that it takes a few days for him to ask her about it, to notice, that which troubles her, in a rare private evening after Jon's been put to bed and they sup alone. She doesn't know how to explain, if there even is a way to do so. She doesn't know if she understands it herself.

 

“It's nothing,” she says instead, smiling at him over her cup of wine.

 

Robert swallows the rest of his wine as he watches her attentively, enough to make her squirm. Then he smiles, a slow thing pulling at the corner of his lips, and that makes her squirm for different reasons. Slouching on his chair, Robert pats his thigh and tilts his head, arching an eyebrow at her, and he waits.

 

Before her mind can address his request, her body is moving; Lyanna rounds the table and slides onto his lap, and then feels a burst of heat envelop her. His hand rests unmoving on her thigh, thumb rubbing circles over the fabric of her gown, stroking the sensitive skin of her thigh. Up this close, she can see the redness of his cheeks, smell the wine in his breath; Robert's on the verge of getting drunk, whereas she can barely sip at her wine without the strong urge of spitting it back out.

 

“Lyanna,” the low timber of his voice and his hand now rubbing up and down her thigh set her body on fire, “what troubles you, truly?”

 

She grabs his empty cup, considers refilling it, but ultimately chooses not to. Her husband is in a mellow mood, would be easy to distract, but Lyanna recalls her own words to him when she'd found out about his nightmares, and knows she must make an effort to share her burdens as well. But she fears his mood will not hold for long, once she begins spilling her convoluted thoughts, once she brings up a time she'd rather forget still, despite the guilt consuming her, a time he loathes to be reminded of.

 

Old Jon had told her what Varys had done, what he'd revealed the day her brother arrived, and as Robert had spent the last few days barking orders to once again get rid of everything that remained from the Targaryen reign, however insignificant, she knows part of his stress is only the impotence to do _more_ manifesting now. Knows that part of his swinging moods is just the storm pushing to be released. And Lyanna, she watches him with her son, watches Robert care for him, _watches Jon look at the man with adoring eyes,_ she's in no hurry to upset this course and endanger the bond that's grown between the two.

 

Knows the possibility of having to send Jon away is still very real, that many want it, many will use anything to their advantage to see it happen, she will not speed up that process, if she doesn't have to.

 

So how can she voice her troubles? _I can't, not now._

 

“Lya…”

 

“I just… can't believe—” She makes a vague gesture, pointing at her belly. “That's our babe kicking, I didn't—” _I didn't get to enjoy this with Jon, I don't even remember if he kicked at all, I…_ “It feels like a dream, is all.”

 

Robert blinks, cradles the side of her face and smiles. “A dream come true,” he whispers, and pulls her into a kiss.

 

Lyanna lets herself go, lets her desires carry her away, her worries melt.

 

She's learned to understand Robert's volatile moods, over the past year, what triggers him and when, has learned to diffuse his temper as it builds. Lyanna has learned to ride the storm when it hits full force. So this, _this Robert,_ happy and gentle and mellow, is not at all a challenge for her.

 

Robert is, in the end, incredibly easy to please, when one knows how.

 

“I would take you to bed now, but I won't,” he says, after breaking the kiss even though his wandering hands betray his words and true intentions.

 

She shudders and shifts on his lap, until she sits astride. “Please do.”

 

“You've barely touched your food,” he points out. “I'll not have you go hungry.”

 

A soft kiss has him groaning and reaching for her, and she says, “I've no hunger for food.”

 

He grins, eyes shining with want, and in no time at all he's carrying her off to her bed.

 

Passionate as Robert is, Lyanna knows now how to handle him, knows when to push and how much, when to confide in him and when to hold back until the appropriate time presented itself. And right now, with the reminder of the exiled Targaryen still very much fresh in his mind, it's not the time for honesty.

 

Her back hits the featherbed, they bounce on it a little as they land. Robert is quick to be rid of his clothes, and just as quick he helps her undress. His hand moves between her legs, finding her as ready as she'll ever be, yet still his guttural groan makes her ache even stronger, Lyanna moans, might say something but the sudden wave of longing leaves her mindless. Her thighs fall apart, legs hitching up; she's vaguely aware of settling the heels of her feet on Robert's bum before he thrusts in with a satisfied grunt, his cock pushing deep inside her. He's careful not to put any of his weight on her, mindful of their babe growing in her womb, but she suddenly wishes he would. Let the pressure of his body ground her, let her focus on something else. Lyanna whimpers, wraps her legs tighter around his waist and tries to meet his movements, match his pace, but it's hard in her state.

 

“Lyanna…” Robert moans, thrusting harder and deeper and faster, body arching over her as he gives her messy kisses. “My Lya…”

 

The words bubble up from deep in her chest, and for a second she knows panic so strong she pulls him forcefully into a bruising kiss, hoping to silence the part of her that yearns to speak up, just as Robert rubs his thumb over her nub, fast circles that send her over the edge. And later, after he's spent and they lie tangled under the sheets, in that blissful state that always envelopes her senses in the aftermath of laying with her husband, Lyanna considers it again. Speaking of her worries, her guilt. When his hand rests over the swell of her belly and he mumbles sweet nothings in her ear, when he cradles her to his chest and speaks to their unborn son, tapping his fingers gently in response to every little kick; she considers it, long and hard.

 

But keeps her silence.

 

After Robert's fallen deeply asleep, Lyanna untangles herself from his arms and climbs out of the bed. She stands next to it, suddenly undecided, wondering where it is she wants to go, ponders for several long moments before pulling on her nighttrail and walking barefooted towards the adjoining room.

 

Jon sleeps peacefully.

 

Kneeling by the crib, Lyanna folds her arms over the edge and looks at her son sleep, looks as his chest rises and falls, as he babbles incoherently, little hands flexing and she can’t help but reach out to him, placing a finger into his palm and watching him close his hand around it. _He's a strong grip,_ she thinks, eyes watering suddenly, _was he… was he this strong before…?_ As if sensing her thoughts, the babe kicks, the strength of it no longer surprises her, but… _but, but, but._

 

Lyanna can't remember.

 

The small reprieve found in her sleeping child doesn’t last, the guilt comes back, heavier than ever and as Lyanna closes her eyes, images swim in and out of focus in her mind. Scattered, blurry, confusing. She recalls the moment the deceit became obvious with startling clarity, remembers feeling despair creeping up her spine, a chill than even the heat could not shake off. And then comes a jumbled mess of days and nights spent riding, surrounded by guards that showed no compassion or pity for her, and then the rumors the smallfolk would whisper as they passed through small towns. _Burnt, burnt, strangled, strangled, the king’s orders, the king's orders. Father and son._ Lyanna remembers trying to pay attention, yet also trying not to hear. _Father and son._ When was it she heard those whispers? At the beginning of that cursed journey or the end? The middle? It’s hard to say now.

 

With a gasp, she blinks her eyes, and realizes she’s been crying quietly this whole time.

 

_How long passed before the Mad King killed Father and Brandon? When did– when did Rhaegar find out?_

 

Jon stirs, but Lyanna is deep into her memories and doesn't notice, the prince's name bringing up all that she doesn’t want to remember. _“A daughter, ‘tis what I need from you, Lady Lyanna, no more,”_ his voice had been as smooth as the day he’d sung in Harrenhal, as haunting, but the tears that had sprung to her eyes then had nothing of the gentle feelings she’d experienced during the opening feast. _“A daughter, and then you may be free to go…”_ A daughter, he’d said, a dragon. _Visenya, Visenya, Visenya._ There’d been a question after, but it’s hard to say now. She knows he’d asked, but she also knows she’d given him no answer. _Wild, willful,_ Father used to call her that, _reckless, foolish._ Lyanna always thought Father was wrong to call her foolish, always, always, _always._

 

Until she’d found herself alone with Rhaegar Targaryen.

 

And she can almost hear his reprimands, _harsh,_ can almost see his face, cold and unforgiving. _“Look what you’ve done now,”_ a damning whisper that still circles her head, relentless, that sometimes follows her into her dreams. _“Look what you’ve done, you foolish child.”_

 

Often times, she yearns to reply,  _I didn’t know,_ to scream,  _I didn’t know!_ Yearns to travel north and stand before the statues and explain her reasons and beg forgiveness and  _he said he’d help me be free!_ But then the whispers would come back, now a harsh truth that would haunt her till her last day.  _Burnt, burnt, strangled, strangled, Rhaegar knew, Rhaegar knew and he still, still—_ for days and weeks and  _godsdamned moons,_ until she was with child and then he left her alone, locked up in a tower,  _locked up in a bloody tower,_ as he rode off to kill the rest of her family. Left her in the company of men who turned a blind eyes to what their prince was doing and who would later enforce her imprisonment.

 

Lyanna remembers begging to be allowed to return home, remembers promising she’d give up the child when it was born. She remembers trying to escape once, twice, _a third time and a fourth and a fifth,_ and being brought back, kicking and screaming, and locked once more at the top of the tower. Every time. Until her belly grew too big, and her movements too sluggish.

 

The Tower of Joy, the handmaids had said, once, with a smile as they helped her dress.

 

Lyanna had thrown the basin filled with water at them, and then they spoke no more.

 

A gust of wind hits her face, drawing once again attention to her tears, but as she’s wiping them off with her silk nighttrail she hears the bang and solid click of a door closing _and—_

 

“Mama!”

 

She jumps in shock, blinks and there he is, Jon standing in his crib, looking at her in wonder. He reaches out to touch her cheeks but Lyanna halts his attempts by grabbing his hands, kissing his knuckles gently. “I’m sorry, Jon, I never wanted you to see me like this…”

 

He tilts his head to one side, leaning closer, and then back to look around the nursery once. “Papa?”

 

“He sleeps, little wolf,” she replies, drying her last tears. Jon awaits her with a grin and open arms; pushing her unpleasant memories aside, she picks him up and cradles him to her chest. “As you should do.”

 

“Yes,” says Jon, but she doubts he fully understands her words.

 

Lyanna walks closer to the windows, hoping the cool breeze might soothe her worries. The breeze and her boy safe in her arms. Jon settles his head on her shoulder and keeps it there as she crosses the room and after, keeps so quiet she thinks him asleep. Humming under her breath, swaying from side to side, shifting her weight from one foot to another, Lyanna loses track of time. Her boy breathes deeply and peacefully and, thinking it best she put him back in his crib, she goes to turn, stops humming. But Jon is not asleep, and he suddenly sits up, alert, looking around the nursery once more.

 

“Robb?”

 

There’s another word he’s learned, a name, that of his cousin.

 

She blinks, for long seconds, and then shakes her head, smiling. “He sleeps, too, Jon.”

 

He pouts, adorable, but then points to the floor near the center of the nursery, where his toys lie on the floor, scattered. “Woof?” She’s about to deny him again, when he looks up, and grins again. “Pa—” It’s hilarious how quick Jon stops and covers his mouth with both hands, eyes wide, and then goes, _“shh!”_

 

Lyanna turns, slowly, adjusting Jon in her grip so he won’t have to twist around to look, and finds Robert standing just under the threshold and looking much like a frightened deer. He clears his throat, though, and relaxes, the expression melting into a lazy grin.

 

“He woke you?” Robert asks.

 

 _I never went to sleep,_ she thinks, but simply shakes her head again. Lyanna means to tell him to go back to bed, that she'll go soon, but instead, she says, “I don’t want to leave him here now.”

 

Robert considers her for a moment, his grin ever present. “Bring him to bed, then, there’s enough room for him.”

 

So that’s what she does, watches Robert go first and she follows seconds later. Her husband lies sprawled on her bed when she catches up with him, and he folds his arms under his head when Lyanna places Jon on the soft featherbed. They both share a smile as they watch the boy crawl to the pillows, slip under the sheets and settle quite comfortably in the middle of the big bed. By Jon’s side, Robert shifts only enough to get under the sheets as well, so she settles on her son’s other side, with much less shifting.

 

Jon grabs a fistful of her nighttrail, tugs her closer, then pats Robert’s chest until he scoot closer, too, finally closing his eyes. Seems he prefers to have them both within reach as he sleeps, _well,_ Lyanna won’t try to curb that habit just yet. She finds it hard to be parted from him long, too. Closing her eyes, the barest of smiles on her face, Lyanna settles to claim the sleep that's been eluding her for days now.

 

“You know Jon calls me Papa.”

 

His voice is soft and seems to come from far away, so much so, Lyanna thinks she's dreaming it, until she hears the rustling of sheets, feels the bed shift under her, and opens her eyes to find her chambers bathed in soft light and Jon deep in his slumber. She must've dozed off.

 

Lyanna blinks, focuses her gaze on him, and whispers, “yes.”

 

“…when?”

 

When? She tries to think back to the night she found out their little secret, so long ago, it feels now. Scarce few moons, before their talk in the council room and the promises made, back when Robert spent the nights apart from her either drinking or whoring.

 

“Jon had just begun sleeping in the nursery,” she says, recalling a night where she'd not been able to rest, so Lyanna had thought bringing Jon to sleep in her bed would solve that problem. However she'd found Jon wide awake and giggling with Robert, as they played with his toys, completely oblivious to their surroundings. She'd heard it clear and loud, how Robert taught him the words, over over until Jon repeated them back. As clear as she'd seen the bottle of wine by their side. “I know you taught him… and taught him to keep it a secret, too.”

 

“And you’ve not said anything.” Robert frowns in concern. “Or tried to stop me.”

 

“Why would I?”

 

“Why would you not?”

 

“You…” Lyanna sighs. “Robert, you _are_ his father. Why would I tell Jon otherwise?”

 

“I _am_ his father.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Robert lowers his gaze and with the back of his fingers he strokes Jon's cheek, “...yes, good.”

**Author's Note:**

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